


I’ll Give You Everything I Want to Be (You’ll Give Me Everything I Need to Be)

by HannahTheScribe



Series: I’ll Give You [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adult Content, Age Difference, Alternative Lifestyles, Alternative Sexuality, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Authority Figures, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Bondage and Discipline, Bottoming, Conditioning, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Sex, Control, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Characters, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Friendship, Heavy BDSM, Human Trafficking, Insomnia, Kinks, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Love, Masochism, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Mental Health Issues, No Lesbians Die, No Safeword, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Novel, Ownership, POV Female Character, POV Queer Character, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Past Tense, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Queer Character, Queer Culture, Queer Families, Queer Friendly, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Realistic, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Romantic Friendship, S&M, Sadism, Secret Organizations, Service, Service Kink, Service Submission, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slave Trade, Slavery, Smut, Social Anxiety, Strong Female Characters, Submission, Submissive Character, Topping, Total Power Exchange, Training, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Useless Lesbians, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahTheScribe/pseuds/HannahTheScribe
Summary: (Book Two of theI'll Give Youseries.) Ezri and Lalia have signed their Ownership contract for a 24/7 dynamic based in service and protocol, Lalia as a slave to Ezri and a majordomo to their trainees—consenting slaves to be trained and sold in a BDSM secret society, hidden in modern day America. Meanwhile, their enemies are far from done with them, and with a friend turned traitor and those closest to them called into question, their fight against consent violations is getting dangerously close to home.Or, a real 24/7 high protocol service slave takes her first leap into writing kinky fiction, Book Two. OT4 is back on their bullshit.  Four disaster queers tackle love, life, and the meaning of consent, and have a lot of kinky sex while doing it. Now featuring everyone's favorite Chaos Knife Lesbians as point of view characters.
Relationships: Clara Chen/Lalia Chalmers, Ezri Roderick/Clara Chen, Ezri Roderick/Lalia Chalmers, Jen Lundqvist/Clara Chen
Series: I’ll Give You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. Knowledge Is Power

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).

The movie theater lobby was bustling, which meant it disguised their voices easily. Hopefully, whatever weird sci fi movie Jen had picked out would also disguise what they tended to get up to in the back row when the action lulled. Clara wasn’t trying to pick up on any other conversations in the lobby, which meant she noticed quickly when Jen went quiet. Or perhaps it was always noticeable if Jen was quiet. “We’re being followed,” she said of her sudden silence, her tone so unchanged it took Clara a moment to process the words. “But I don’t think we have to worry in a place this crowded.”

“By who?” She didn’t want to obviously look around and hadn’t noticed anything. Besides, Jen’s distracted gaze seemed to have flicked to somewhere behind her.

“Our dear friend Amoret.”

“Lovely.” Her heart beat faster, though. No, she wasn’t that worried in a crowded lobby, either, but they had to leave at some point. And while she hadn’t thought of Amoret as a continued danger, she also hadn’t expected to be followed on their date. “How did she find us?” As if by virtue of noticing first, Jen knew any more than she did.

Jen considered.

“Followed us back from Ezri’s?” Clara asked.

Jen shook her head. “We would’ve noticed if they got that close to the house. Small streets.” She thought. Then sighed abruptly. “She knows my name.”

“What?”

“Ezri used it. The meeting about Tamora.”

 _“Jesus fucking Christ, Jenevieve; this is not how the law works; sit down.”_ An innocent one liner at the time.

“It’s an uncommon enough first name even if they assumed it was spelled correctly. That and a city to look up… an address record would come up somewhere. And the actual spelling. And everything else.”

“Great. So what do we do?”

“Well, may as well see what she wants. Not like she’s trying too hard to be inconspicuous. And not like this line is moving.” Indeed, the Saturday night ticket line was not moving. “Stay in arm’s reach.” They stepped out of the line and approached.

“Why, what a coincidence,” said Amoret.

“What do you want?”

“I was hoping you’d pass along my congratulations to your friends. It sounds from Fet like they sealed their contract.”

“I’m sure they’ll be so fucking glad to hear from you. What else do you want?”

“Now, Jenevieve, we don’t need to be hostile, do we~?”

“I get it. You figured out how to use Google and got our names and address. And what, phone numbers?”

“Workplaces.”

“Congratulations. And what do you intend to do with all that?” Garrett and Amoret had that information on Ezri and Lalia already, who had that information on Garrett and Amoret. It could be used to find and harass but not much else. There was no one anyone involved seemed horrifically concerned about being outed to, and they had already covered the legal matters.

“Oh, they say knowledge is power and all.”

“Look, we have a movie to see, would you like to get to your point?”

“Gonna have to change to the 9:15 showing at this rate,” Clara muttered.

Amoret looked at her as if she’d just remembered Clara existed. “She’s pretty, you know,” she said to Jen. “You could get good money for her. Shame she clearly doesn’t have an ounce of training.”

“And what makes you think that? Did Garrett find her impact techniques lacking?" 

Clara laughed. 

Amoret scowled. “You’d have to ask him. I’m sure that’s the sort of criteria he’d measure on. I could do much better work on her. I might’ve gotten through to your friend if she hadn’t had a ‘medical emergency’.”

“I’m sure drowning does wonders for submission.”

“We could find out.”

“—Sounds like a great time. I can do Tuesday?” Clara interjected blithely.

Jen smacked her upside the head a little harder than she meant to in public, while Amoret simply looked baffled. “If you touch her, I’ll kill you,” Jen said.

Amoret made a little gesture of innocence in Clara’s direction, the child’s _I’m not touching you_ an inch from one’s arm. She hadn’t even completed the gesture when Jen grabbed her arm so suddenly Clara jumped just to observe it. Amoret cried out in pain but didn’t catch anyone’s attention in the loud lobby; Jen put more pressure into the wristlock.

“I didn’t touch her,” Amoret hissed, failing to pull her arm back.

“And I didn’t kill you,” Jen said pleasantly. “Would you like to go for dislocation?” She grabbed her other hand into her grip when it flailed.

“No. You can have your little pet.” The words were defiant in tone but her expression was desperate. “Though it sounds like _she_ might be up for pain and compliance techniques.”

“I can also do Thursday~” Clara smiled sweetly.

Jen let go of Amoret, who swore and cradled her wrist. Jen accepted that she smacked Clara upside the head this hard in public now. Clara noticed, rubbing at where Jen had hit her again, that the keys once clipped to the strap of Amoret's purse had vanished.

Amoret didn’t. “All right,” she said through gritted teeth, “I see how it is. Enjoy your movie.”

“So you didn’t have a point?”

“And wish your friends luck.” Amoret stalked off.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Clara. “But I think we can still make the 8:45.”

“Not a total waste of time.” Jen jingled the keys in front of her, with a quick glance to make sure Amoret was out of range.

“Won’t she miss those pretty fast?”

“Certainly.” She set the keys on a nearby table, spread them out, took a few pictures with her phone. “But we don’t need them long. She’ll just think it’s a petty inconvenience.”

Photography done, Clara followed her as they brushed straight past the ticket checkpoint with a quick, “Just dropping off lost and found,” to the attendant, holding up the keys, and then dropped them at the candy counter with the _getting out of eight speeding tickets a year_ smile and the, “So sorry to interrupt, but I just found these on the floor over there, do you have a lost and found? Thanks,” and didn’t wait for the answer before walking off with Clara towards Theater Four. The cashier shook their head a little but didn’t pursue them.

“We’re not buying tickets, are we?”

“Oh, please, we’ll never make the 8:45 in that line. And I want to get into a locksmith before it’s the middle of the night.” Someone called after them. She ignored it. Her phone rang. She picked it up with a cheerful, “Hello?”

“All right, where are my keys?”

“Lost and found. Candy counter. Have a great night.” _Click._

The movie was, as expected, kind of terrible, a lot of flashing lasers and not a lot of sense. But it was free, and that was fine. The back row orgasms were very nice.

They were cautious when they left; the twenty-four hour emergency locksmith was able to recreate Jen’s emergency photos of her tragically misplaced keys.

There were a few sets on the ring; one, they had to imagine, was to Amoret’s house. Car. An extra on a separate ring that seemed promising for the nearest TrainingMax location. One small key that looked newer than the others, that neither could definitively place.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Clara the next day in the car.

“Just keep an eye on the cameras.” Jen’s phone was in Clara’s lap, displaying the security cameras from TrainingMax. Garrett had not changed his password to the security app even when the physical phone was returned, but the footage had not been useful until now. They hadn’t thought to look until they wondered where Riley was, but anything related to Riley’s sale evidently happened at Eric’s.

It seemed a long shot that they would rekey any locks with the keys immediately returned.

“I just want it on the record that I think this is a terrible idea.”

“Noted. Now do as I tell you.”

Clara sighed and kept an eye on the app as Jen drove. A whole lot of nothing. It had been untouched except for a landscaper for weeks. _“You’d think they could at least Airbnb it or something,”_ Clara had commented earlier.

It was a long drive. At least the music was good. Jen parked a street over. Went over the instructions one more time, which basically came down to: _stay._ “And actually do it this time.”

Clara shuddered. She didn’t need a repeat of Riley’s rescue. “Yes, Mistress,” she murmured, avoiding her gaze.

"Good girl." She left.

Clara’s phone rang as promised minutes later.

“Okay, extra key did work. Cameras were ‘offline’ for a minute and now are back on.”

She sighed in relief. The drive back seemed shorter somehow. She had to appreciate Amoret’s dedication to drive into town from almost as far just to threaten them. They stopped at the post office to mail some packages for their Etsy customers; a cuff set, two floggers, a tawse and a strap.

They planned to see Ezri and Lalia the next day because, Clara thought, Jen liked to do things as cinematically as possible, and calling Ezri about Amoret or the keys didn’t seem dramatic enough.

Shortly after they got home, Jen called to her, “The cameras turned on. Motion sensitive. Someone’s there. Take a guess.”

“Locksmith?”

“Paige.”

“Fuck.” She went to Jen’s office, kicking a cat—the General—off her lap as she stood.

It was Garrett who was there with Paige, mostly giving a tour. The words didn’t say much but the tones and expressions and body language showed benevolence and comfort, and Clara, who had always found Paige a bit pretentious anyway, wanted desperately to strangle her for stupidly believing this man had anyone’s best interests in mind. He seemed less malicious than Amoret, but too stupid or cowardly to help at best.

“I think we know what that extra key is for.”

She looked at Jen in confusion, then caught a better look at Paige as she unknowingly turned towards a camera. Collar. New. Small steel lock.

“Give it to Charlie,” she said, not sure what that would actually do for anyone, but it made Jen laugh.

Nothing much came of the tour. The two left, other discussion saved for elsewhere. Paige had moved out of Charlie’s but they weren’t sure yet to where. The two might just not have wanted to stall on a long drive back for Garrett, at least.

The drive to Ezri’s the next day was shorter. Jen grabbed her hand and dropped the TrainingMax key into it upon arrival.

“What’s this?”

“Key to TrainingMax’s front door.”

“You’re kidding.”

Lalia, behind her, looked confused, too. The lock on her new collar looked at a distance similar to Paige’s, or similar to Clara’s.

Jen told the story. Clara interjected details. Ezri looked concerned, and then exasperated, and then thoughtful or intrigued, and a little worried. “Well, I’m glad you two didn’t get yourselves killed or something,” she said, examining the key. “I have no idea what to do with this.”

“Wait until we have something to do with it.”

Things had finally been quiet for a week or so—small talk calls to Charlie or Branwen—but they wouldn’t be forever. They all knew it. 


	2. Ballot Day

The back patio was refreshingly cool but not too chilly in the morning sun, and Ezri had recommended they enjoy the weather, mix it up, and have breakfast there today. So Lalia finished placing food and coffee on the table and did a last scan of her table setting exactly at 9:30, then sent Ezri a message. _Breakfast is ready, ma’am._ She waited in the specified position behind her usual chair. It was a routine they had refined during the consideration contract.

The sliding door opened and closed. “You may sit,” Ezri told her in greeting, as Lalia wasn’t to actually ask for the permission, and they both sat.

“The lights fell again,” Lalia said, with a nod towards the small solar panel at the end of the string lights, dangling uselessly in the shade for the third time that week. Feeling indulgent—or maybe the med induced cravings—she started spreading some Nutella on her toast.

Ezri sighed. “You can try the velcro, then.” She stirred up the ingredients of her yogurt parfait.

“Yes, ma’am.”

They ate, and talked. Ezri opened the mail Lalia had left nearby on the table; there was a _Shanah Tovah!_ card from Ezri’s sister, Daphne. “Only a month and a half late,” Ezri laughed. It was really a random letter to _bring cheer to her mailbox_ tied to the most recent major holiday. “Jewish new year,” Ezri explained.

From Lalia’s understanding, Ezri and her social group mostly celebrated a mix of Hanukah and Christmas via a gathering of family and friends at her parents’ house, and other holidays and occasions tended to pass quietly. Jen’s birthday in August, for one—the fifteenth, turning forty—and Lalia’s in September—the fourteenth, turning twenty-three. That was perfectly fine by her.

Her birthday had been after Sadie, before TrainingMax, last month. A relaxing day; Ezri took her out to dinner, threatened to make her come twenty-three times but stuck to birthday spankings and seven very nice orgasms. Her birthday “card” was a four page handwritten letter, and Ezri had gotten her a small, choice selection of books that she had annotated with commentary and the occasional love note. It made her smile to think about.

The other pieces of mail Ezri seemed interested in were their sample ballots that had arrived for the 2018 midterm elections. “God, has that idiot been President for two years already?” Ezri asked. “What’s today?”

“Friday. The twenty-sixth.”

“We’ll have Jen and Clara over at seven,” said Ezri. This was a new decision as far as Lalia knew—perhaps it would be news to even Jen and Clara—and she wasn’t sure what it had to do with the election, but Ezri left her to clean up breakfast and took both sample ballots with her.

A text from Clara later said simply, _We’re fucked. Piece of advice, start drinking now._

_?_

_Ballot day._

_?_ and _I don’t drink._

_Like "former alcoholic" don’t drink, or “alcohol doesn’t taste good” don’t drink?_

_On an SSRI “don’t drink.” And I don’t like it._

_Good luck._

_What?_

No answers.

She didn’t bother asking Clara again, but phrased it to Ezri—in her office a while later, after acknowledgement—as, “Are Jen and Clara coming over for something in particular?”

Ezri looked at her as if this was a very dumb question, then looked as if she’d remembered something that made it a much less dumb question. Lalia did still forget that they’d had separate habits and routines and lives not so long ago, sometimes. “Ah,” said Ezri. “I should’ve explained that.” She gestured.

Lalia knelt next to her.

“So, once upon a time, I found out that Jen thought voting libertarian was a valid option. Which, to be clear—they have a lot of fine social policies—but they’re stupidly fiscally conservative, and I’m largely a socialist—but we know that—anyway—well, I do think half the people who call themselves Libertarians have no idea it’s a socially liberal party—and then there’s the gun thing; obviously, my feelings are mixed—I don’t like the government regulating ‘weapons’—they’d take away half the dungeon at some point—but does anyone need an automatic who’s not planning a school shooting, really—and cops don’t either—but anyway, that was not the only issue with her voting. Finally we decided we weren’t going to cancel each other’s votes out, and now we always come to a mutual consensus on how we—and Clara, and now you—are going to vote, once we get our sample ballots. This usually involves a lot of drinking, yelling, and research.”

Lalia blinked. She was very aware of Ezri’s politics, but the mutual consensus policy was news to her, as was the fact that her vote—and Clara’s, for that matter—was no longer her own. She didn’t really find it objectionable; she agreed with Ezri often enough. Mostly, she just hadn’t thought of it, which was probably telling in itself; she was a bit of a cynic on what her vote mattered for to begin with; but it surprised her that the far more idealistic Ezri hadn’t mentioned it, though that seemed to surprise Ezri, too.

It amused her that Ezri agreed to _mutually vote_ with the same woman she denied cuddling with, and thought that maybe Clara’s take on their _lovers’ spats_ or perhaps the word _queerplatonic_ was on to something.

“Okay,” she said finally, not sure what else to say, but part of Ezri’s surprise seemed to be waiting for a response. “That’s… fine.”

Ezri laughed, though it sounded almost nervous. But soon enough she was off waxing rhapsodic again about being a socialist business owner in a capitalist’s world, and the dangers of voting third party, and how she and her friends tended to treat resources as _communal_ (and Lalia was rapidly getting the idea that she was one of those _communal_ resources), but for that to work you had to accept playing into a capitalist system, and—

Jen and Clara arrived a few minutes before seven.

Lalia had just finished cleaning up dinner. Got everyone whatever drink they wanted. She stuck to water. Clara, despite her own advice, had coffee, black. Jen and Ezri, true to Ezri’s summary, started with their usual respective glass of red wine—which Jen had brought more of—and a rum and coke.

Jen had also brought another pile of scrap leather pieces that might be big enough to be useful for Lalia’s newfound hobby of rebinding books. She wasn’t very good at it yet, hence using paperbacks in Ezri’s donate pile and scrap leather from Jen’s Etsy shop, but she was enjoying it. Clara brought the latest issue of Asher’s rebooted newsletter that she had already read. They both brought an endorsement of someone Ezri might want to look into as an entry trainee.

Maybe they were socialists, or something like a polycule, or maybe just practical.

They traded the week’s gossip, too.

“Shame that Charlie’s lost his shit and isn’t hosting,” said Clara. “Not that I can blame him.”

“It does seem like everyone’s back to public parties lately,” said Ezri. “Munches. Classes. Dungeon events, I guess. I hear their new management doesn’t like anyone they think is network, though.”

“They’re too busy trying to not piss someone off and get shut down because of ‘zoning laws,’” said Jen. “They don’t want human traffickers running around. But they’d get rid of more issues if they enforced their pro Doms not fucking clients.”

“They’d get rid of more issues if we’d legalize consensual sex work already,” said Ezri. Lalia mentally agreed. “But what do you care? You always liked Temptation better in your going out to play phase.”

Lalia couldn’t place the bristle of tension that followed but knew it was there. She thought maybe it was some old bickering about Jen and Clara “dragging” Ezri along to Temptation, but Ezri also seemed confused by the split second too long beat of silence. Clara was suddenly very interested in a loose thread on her shirt.

“Well, places that are more swingery seem to mind some things less,” said Jen, a moment too late. Lalia had a feeling she was missing a twenty minute long conversation in the glance she shared with Ezri. “And it’s a more easily impressed audience.”

“Not like you two need a basically vanilla audience to show off,” said Ezri, which was true, holding that eye contact a little too long. “So why did you stop going?”

“Phase,” Jen shrugged. “We’re back to movies.”

Ezri was unconvinced. So was Lalia. “Nothing… ended that phase?”

The twenty minute conversation glance happened between Jen and Clara this time. “Well,” said Clara, slowly, finally, “we got a warning for using a fire whip in too small of a space.”

“It was fine,” said Jen. “It was plenty of room if you’re not an idiot and look where you’re aiming.”

“And then?” Ezri asked.

Lalia hadn’t been waiting for _and then_ but she saw another glance and suspected Ezri was right to ask.

“And then we got banned,” Jen relented.

“For what? Did you burn the place down?” Ezri asked, laughing a little, though it sounded like there was anger in it.

“No.”

Silence.

“Does anyone else want more coffee?” Clara asked, standing.

“Sit down,” Ezri told her.

“Yes’m.”

Clara sat, but Ezri’s eyes were still on Jen. Lalia felt equal parts desperately curious and as eager to escape the situation as Clara.

“Well,” said Jen slowly. “There was another incident.”

“I was an idiot,” Clara said.

“What did you do?” asked Ezri.

“It was stupid. I panicked.”

“ _What did you do_?” Ezri asked again, danger in her tone.

Clara swallowed. “I safeworded,” she said very softly.

“You don’t… have a safeword,” said Ezri, confused. That was precisely what Lalia was thinking.

“Exactly,” said Jen, grimacing. 

Ezri started piecing it together for them. “She called red. You ignored her. Someone heard it.”

“Yes.”

_Oh._

“It wasn’t a scene we should’ve done at Temptation,” Jen admitted. “There’s a reason we usually stick to fire and impact for public play.” She finally started supplying information before Ezri asked. “We were doing knives—blood—which they didn’t like there, anyway,” she said. “But they wouldn’t ban it if you weren’t spreading pathogens.”

Lalia hadn’t actually seen Jen and Clara—or anyone else—do knife play that actually cut at an event. Just some impromptu cuts in the kitchen with her and Ezri as the only audience. Others had done needle play that penetrated at parties, pretty ribbon designs laced between them. Still, she shuddered if she thought about it too hard. Blood still intimidated her. From whips, maybe, she’d be more willing. Sharps scared her.

“So what happened?” Ezri asked.

“Well... she hit subspace too fast, and then hit subdrop midscene. By the time I figured out how bad it was, she was already yelling red.”

“I was being a brat,” Clara mumbled, looking at her hands in her lap.

“No,” Jen said gently, stroking her thigh. “You were panicking. You’re allowed to panic. It wasn’t your fault. They were looking for a reason to get rid of us and then someone with a knife at her throat was yelling red and not being let up. I was trying to see if I could calm her down enough to keep going. I’m not used to her dropping midscene and freaking out like that. She’s fucking fallen asleep with my knife at her throat before; you know that. She doesn’t even usually drop after. They didn’t like the look of it. Security got involved. I explained that she doesn’t have a safeword. They explained that while we were on the premises, as far as they were concerned, she did. I got a lifetime ban. She came to her senses enough to tell them to fuck off, and… also got a lifetime ban. They didn’t pursue anything else. No domestic violence charges or whatever.”

“Kind of them,” Ezri deadpanned, running her hands over her face, displacing her glasses.

“We were kind of getting over Temptation, anyway,” Jen said, and shrugged. “And they were obviously getting tired of us.”

“And we weren’t even dragging you anymore,” said Clara, though she still looked a little… subdued.

“Still,” said Ezri. “Getting banned from a public kink venue is… not ideal.”

“We shouldn’t have kept going where we weren’t wanted.” Jen seemed unconcerned about the ban itself, more wary of Ezri’s reaction. Lalia had to agree that her and Clara both might be taking it lightly, too insouciant to appearances. She didn’t have a great knowledge of what was common or not—bans and types of play and calling a safeword you didn’t have—but a lifetime ban sounded serious.

“When was this?” Ezri asked. “I didn’t even see the fire whip incident.”

“While Lalia was at TrainingMax. That’s why we weren’t dragging you.”

That was also, Lalia reflected, probably a factor in why they hadn’t brought it up at the time.

“You should be careful,” Ezri warned. “I know you might not care about Temptation—but people talk.”

“They talk anyway,” said Jen. Clara gave a small shrug of agreement.

Well, that was true. But Jen and Clara seemed to take the _so you might as well give them something to talk about_ approach and Lalia tended to take the _so don’t add fuel to the flames_ approach. Even if their social circles mostly understood CNC—and not all did—it was one thing to talk about the theory of it and another to, well, watch someone bound, bleeding, and panicking with a knife at their throat have a safeword ignored. She knew that for Jen and Clara, that was Tuesday, but for plenty of people, it would’ve been a traumatic experience.

“I do panic sometimes,” Clara reminded Jen quietly. “But not usually like that.”

“Oh, you almost always cry and plead and squirm and tell me to fuck off, but they know not to listen for that. Too many people fuck around with that. I didn’t mean that stuff.”

Clara shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t usually drop so hard I yell a safeword I don’t have. But they noticed _that_ pretty fucking fast.”

Jen kissed her nose. “You’re allowed to panic,” she reminded her softly.

Shortly thereafter, she retreated to the dining room with Ezri to see to the ballots. Within a few minutes, there did indeed seem to be a lot of yelling.

Clara, still in the living room with Lalia, did not get to say anything else before her phone rang. “I swear I only get calls when I’m with you,” she said to Lalia, and to the phone, “Hello? … All right, let me talk to him.” Up and pacing. Whatever Clara said next was not in English, nor was the rest of the brief call.

Lalia looked up curiously, and when Clara had hung up, said, “And I swear every time you answer the phone I learn something about you.”

Clara tilted her head in confusion, then laughed. “You ever forget you’re bilingual?”

Lalia, who was not bilingual, watched Clara flop on the sectional part of the couch again with her chin propped on her arms, facing Lalia, hair falling over the edge of the couch, nearly reaching the floor. “I forget I’m bisexual.”

Clara smirked. “What side of that do you forget, sweetie?”

“What language do you forget you speak?” Lalia countered, stalling.

“Mandarin. Your turn.”

“I forget I’m into men.”

“Mood. Did I use that right? Jaz says I’m too old to get it right.”

Lalia laughed. “You got the idea.”

Clara tilted her head towards the phone. “Grandpa. Not bilingual. Assisted living with translators a few towns over. Ninety-fucking-seven years old. Been there for twenty fucking years. They call me now and then when they can’t convince him to change a med he should change or whatever.”

That was less shocking than almost any other revelation from Clara. But she made a quick note on her phone: _Do entry trainees have emergency contacts?_ Questions to ask as they got closer to their first proper training program. “I might get stubborn after twenty years in assisted living, too.”

“But not in slavery?”

“No; then I get to _do_ the assisting.”

They both laughed.

Apparently, making decisions on a ballot made up of mostly judgeship positions, many running unopposed, was a several hour process. Save bringing the occasional drink refill, Lalia did not see much of it, just glancing at what was on the laptop screen when she went in. She overheard indistinct shouting matches, but neither her nor Clara could make much sense of them from the living room. Nothing inclined Ezri to yelling quite like politics and Jen. It was unclear if the (third) rum and coke was fueling or calming this inclination. She switched to water when they had only one position left to decide on.

Regardless, it was late when Jen and Clara left, and Ezri didn’t actually seem in a bad mood. Then again, any opportunity to pin Lalia to the inside of the front door moments after guests closed it and kiss her with one hand tight in her hair and the other under her skirt tended to put her in a very good mood.

Honestly, it usually put Lalia in a good mood, too. She was tired, but her body responded eagerly to Ezri’s touches, and her mind caught up.

Usually, there was something like a tipping point with their impromptu sex and play. A part where kissing and touching and teasing could stay just that—even if it was a bit of a denial scene in itself—and a part where whatever the original intention, it wasn’t going to stop without at least one of them orgasming, and frequently fucking.

Tonight, they went from Ezri’s hand at her back while they bid Jen and Clara farewell to far beyond that tipping point immediately.

Lalia whimpered and writhed against the back of the door while Ezri fingered her, the hand in her hair and the one inside her anchoring points. She instinctively jerked forward a little when Ezri stopped pulling at her hair, but the same hand slipped around her throat instead. _Oh—_ It made her nervous; not pressing, but the threat was there, and God knew her luck with breath play, and Ezri’s memory, and perhaps a little disinhibited tonight, and with Ezri's touch so near the collar, the keen awareness that there would be nothing Lalia could do about it.

She clenched very hard and suddenly around Ezri’s fingers, heart racing, but it was a soft moan of arousal that slipped from her lips rather than a cry of fear.

Ezri murmured praise for the reaction in her ear, and with that, her fingers tightened, just a little, just a bit of air that wasn’t reaching Lalia's lungs, enough to make her breath catch and arousal skyrocket with the added form of desperation. “Come.”

Lalia did, hard and immediately. She lost track of the exact moment Ezri let go of her, but her panting afterward was not horrifically unsuited to an orgasm that intense. God. Her body’s defense mechanisms were useless. “Thank you, ma’am,” she whispered, slumping against her a little, legs shaking in the aftermath.

Ezri kissed the top of her head, and when sense was just starting to return to her, led her upstairs. Bedroom.

“Lay down,” Ezri told her.

“ _Lie_ ,” Lalia mumbled before she could stop the word, though she went to sit on the bed.

Ezri gave her a shove onto her back. “Direct object. _Lay._ I _lay_ my favorite object on the bed. And something clever about the sexual definition.”

Lalia giggled.

Ezri smiled at her. “I love you.” She gripped her by her collar, the lock with her name on it. “Eu _la_ lia.”

“I love you, too,” Lalia got out sleepily, eyes fluttering open and shut, though she giggled at the _lay_ in her name, and the way Ezri had started using her full name on occasion. The bed was very comfortable.

Ezri was undressing and she would’ve liked to watch it, but her tired eyes seemed to have other ideas. She shifted helpfully when she realized Ezri was trying to get her underwear off of her, and it occurred to her then that Ezri intended to have sex with her, and arousal flared again, along with the idea she should probably do something more useful than _lie_ here.

There wasn’t terribly much to be done, though. Adjusting to find a good angle between them, and rocking to meet Ezri’s thrusts, and returning the occasional light kiss on the lips, though Ezri mostly nuzzled against her neck and pressed kisses there, sucking a little. A hand slipped into her hair and tugged. It felt nice. Ezri deep inside her felt better.

“God, I love you,” Ezri said one more time; Lalia felt it against her skin as much as she heard it. Her hand tightened in Lalia’s hair. “Mine.”

“Yours.” It came out breathy, need pulsing through her again, rising, rising.

Ezri ordered her to come moments before it seemed she found her own release; Lalia did, the harder, faster thrusts of Ezri’s own desperation making it very easy.

After, they both caught their breath, Ezri shifting off of her and Lalia curling up facing her. “Thank you, ma’am,” Lalia whispered.

Ezri tucked Lalia's hair back out of her face, ran her fingers through it. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “You’ve probably ruined me for being impressed by any entry trainees. In sex and everything else.”

Lalia laughed, pleased by this. “I try.”

“You’re _trying_ to ruin my ability to be impressed by people?”

“Maybe.” She snuggled closer to her.

“Hmm.” Ezri smiled at her fondly. She drew her hand back from where it had been petting Lalia’s hair and gave her a sharp pat on the cheek. “Let’s hope you impress me at nighttime inspection, then. It would be a shame if I had to beat you at this point in the evening.”

Lalia giggled, finding it within herself to sit up. “Yes, ma’am.”


	3. Scouting

Lalia fussed over her hair in the mirror. It wasn’t that she cared about looking attractive so much as… proper. It was basically the only element of her look she could make her own decisions on, and she wanted to make the right one. Down seemed too impractical. A ponytail seemed too casual. Two braids or pigtails—too ageplayer. One braid—too fad—too Katniss or Elsa? A bun—too serious?

She tried sprucing up the ponytail with a twist in it, and it looked better. The fact was, _majordomo_ was a hard in between role to dress for, let alone explain. But if she was a reflection of Ezri’s taste and training, she wanted to be a good one.

“You look beautiful,” Ezri said from the doorway. Lalia jumped.

“That wasn’t my conc—thank you,” she corrected.

Ezri fingered the end of the ponytail. “You should leave it like this. It suits you.”

That quieted the multitude of options in her head, at least.

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. There’s nothing you absolutely have to do tonight.” A kiss on her shoulder from behind her, arms around her waist.

They had started the process of looking for entry trainees. Lalia was to scout out the TNG munch. While not known for high overlap with general network ideals, it was a common home group for those new to the scene whom they might not see elsewhere. Ezri was disqualified to go by age, though she could’ve gone as Lalia’s plus one. Still, she opted to have Lalia go alone. See if she could start a dialogue with someone who might be interested in entering the network through entry training.

“I know. I just don’t want—to reflect badly on you.”

“And you don’t. And you won’t. I’m always very proud to own you, Eulalia.”

“I haven’t _done_ anything yet.” It was a dumb claim and it came out irritable. She regretted it immediately.

“You’ve done plenty,” Ezri reminded her.

“I know—I—”

“You helped prepare Tamora for a loving dynamic she’s thriving in. You greatly improved Sadie’s range of skills. You helped every trainee at TrainingMax. You’ve served at and even overseen complex events. You've completely won over my friends and served me dutifully every day. Isn’t that enough?”

Deep breath. Yes, serving Ezri well would always be plenty. “It’s enough,” she said. The speech mostly just made her feel guilty. Disparaging herself—as that reflection of Ezri—was an offense Ezri had been uncharacteristically lenient on. She understood where it came from, knew shutting it down entirely would make the problem worse. Still, Lalia knew better.

Ezri considered. “If I were to punish you for something you found unreasonable, after I heard your reasoning, would you argue with me?”

“No, ma’am.” Avoiding her gaze in the mirror. Ezri had the right to punish her at will. Her strong feelings about doing so fairly were beside the fact.

“Then perhaps you should learn to take reinforcement the same way.”

Lalia sucked in a breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ezri kissed her neck. Her hand shifted up to the collar around it. “Whose collar is this?”

“Yours, ma’am.” The collar belonged to the Owner, a symbol to be bestowed.

“And why are you wearing it?”

“Because I earned it, ma’am.” The part of the full answer she’d want right now.

“And why does it have your name on it?”

“I—don’t know, ma’am.” Identification didn’t seem like the answer.

“Because I had faith you would earn it, Eulalia. And I have faith you will continue to earn it, every day.”

“Have you been trying to make me associate my full name with reinforcement?” The realization was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She just had to ruin the moment.

“Maybe.” Ezri smiled against her skin, amused she’d noticed. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll drop you off, go in for a minute, and pick you up when you message me.”

“Okay.” The idea of Ezri staying with her for a minute soothed some anxieties.

Ezri frowned at her own hair in the mirror, running her fingers through it. “The humidity is terrible today.” Her floofy curls seemed tighter and shorter for the weather, more jaw than chin length, but fluffed and frizzed outwards. Still, the medium brown changed colors less when wet than Lalia’s light strawberry blonde.

Lalia laughed, turned in Ezri’s now one armed grasp. “I think you look beautiful.” She leant up and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

“Fake news.”

Lalia kissed her cheek. “Real news.”

They set out to leave shortly, getting in the car.

Ezri looked through her Spotify history, mostly instrumental, with a dispassionate frown. The list was occasionally interrupted by Matisyahu and the Maccabeats. “I swear I’m not religious,” she said. Otherwise, _Hamilton, Les Mis,_ and _Newsies._

“Lot of uprisings,” said Lalia.

“And what oh so innocent selection’s in your library?”

Lalia slowly started turning red. When Ezri held out her hand, she offered her phone without looking at her.

“Ah,” said Ezri, going through Lalia’s rarely touched library of music, several productions of _Annie_ and _Cinderella_ , the scores of _A Little Princess_ and _Downton Abbey_. The _Harry Potter_ scores barely served to round it out. The only selection from _Les Mis_ , a more recent version than Ezri’s album, was “Castle on a Cloud”.

Lalia buried her face in her lap.

Ezri put on the _Little Princess_ score and asked, “You wanted to be Becky?”

“No,” Lalia mumbled unconvincingly into her knees. The blush had crept so far to the sides of her face Ezri could see it regardless.

“Is this the kind of humiliation you can get off on?”

The red deepened. “No,” she mumbled just as unconvincingly.

She sat up as Ezri pulled out of the driveway. Ezri’s teasing at least shifted her from nervous to flustered. They found the munch inside as per the last minute update in the Fet group, rather than in their usual spots on the patio, due to the dreary forecast. Overcast for now, very dark out considering the dinner hour. Ezri helpfully inserted Lalia into the middle of the early arrivals’ conversation and then left.

The munch was mostly fun, but she felt distinctly out of place. A lot of singles or people in part time, casual, or play based dynamics. Switches. Almost anyone on the right side of the slash was a brat, a little, a pet, a masochist, first and foremost. It wasn’t that she found play or masochism unrelatable, but watching some of even the supposed D/s pairs interact, she often mistook who was whom. She did not like to imagine what would happen if she spoke to Ezri like that. Nor did she feel any desire to do so.

In fact, remembering how unique her dynamic with Ezri was in the grand scheme of things, she felt a rush of affection and gratitude for her, eagerness to go home. She made sure to get the Fet usernames of the two of the single crowd who seemed to _say_ some of the right things, at least, so she had something to report to Ezri in the car going home, listening to the lulling _Downton Abbey_ score and the not so lulling distant rumble of thunder.

Ezri, for her part, just liked listening to Lalia talk, even—especially—if it was unnecessarily lamenting their mutual rarity.

Still, something seemed off and uncharacteristically anxious even for Lalia. Ezri couldn’t place what it was in the car or as they settled into their evening routines. Leftover social anxiety, maybe. She looked into the profiles Lalia had sent her, not impressed yet either but not ruling them out. Read an article she’d printed out before filing it into a binder. The storm grew outside, rain coming down, lightning flashing. She wrote, briefly, on some of the process of preparing for entry training—for a later piece, probably.

Lalia was jumpy at their evening inspection, but Ezri didn’t prod her yet. In the bedroom, she curled up against her when beckoned, her head nestled near Ezri’s hip, her arm draped over Ezri’s lap below the book she was reading, holding it with one hand and stroking Lalia’s hair with the other.

Lalia looked up at her.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think—may I… may I stay here tonight? Please, ma'am?” Her voice was soft, her eyes wide. She had never asked before. She asked for very little.

Thunder crackled loudly outside. Lalia jumped out of her skin, half sitting up.

Ezri smiled slowly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I know. I know it’s stupid—”

“—No, it’s—”

“—But I… can’t get over it. I mean, I can function, and I was obviously living alone, but—”

“—Sweetheart. Shh.” Ezri stroked her cheek. “You can stay here.”

“I—thank you, ma’am.” She lowered her gaze and settled against her again, the nonexistent grip of the arm draped over her tightening to a trembling squeeze at the next boom of thunder. Until now, it had been a quiet few months for the weather, afternoon storms.

“I’ve got you.” Ezri’s fingers skimmed her back. “Everyone’s afraid of something,” she murmured. “It’s not stupid.”

Lalia considered. “What are _you_ afraid of?”

“Oh, lots of things. Losing people I love. Losing my mind. The direction our country’s going. What people probably think of me. All the legal turmoil I could get into…”

“No,” said Lalia; “what’s like, the dumb one?”

Ezri laughed. “The ocean.”

Lalia frowned. “Not like it’s far.”

“No. But I mostly manage to avoid it. And it’s not that I can’t function when I get too close. But it makes me jittery.”

“Why?”

“Why are you afraid of thunderstorms?” Ezri countered.

“It’s like—out of control. The sky is doing things and making bright lights and loud noises and a bunch of force in wind and water and there’s nothing we can do about it but hide.”

Ezri considered. “The ocean is too big. Things aren’t meant to be that big. We have no idea what’s in half of it and there’s just—no one and nothing until you get to the other side. It’s… unreasonable.”

Lalia laughed a little, though she cowered into the blankets at the next roar of thunder. Still, the idea that Ezri had fears, too, if far fewer of them, was strangely comforting. Human, in a way Ezri usually avoided seeming.

The next morning was quiet. Lalia did a few chores, read Ezri’s latest essay (on the uses of mindfulness for Owners and slaves both), put on a psychology podcast and tried out a new method of making a three dimensional cover when she redid a book’s binding with chipboard and leather.

She paused to move laundry around, turning items inside out from the next hamper to go into the wash—this one for Lalia’s uniform skirts and Ezri’s jeans, the heavier fabrics, grays and blacks. She checked pockets, and found six pens in Ezri’s week’s worth of clothes, a record but not by much. She left one shirt for the next load that needed mending in her own office, then went to Ezri’s office to deliver the six purple pens from the same small, pricey company.

She set them on the desk.

"What's this?"

“Laundry." 

Ezri laughed. “Are you judging me?”

“Not at all.” The touch of sarcasm was light, but there.

“I’ll do what I like with my pens. And it’s your job, my darling, to return them to me wherever they may end up, because I can spend your time however I like.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The sarcasm vanished, but the smile didn’t.

Ezri took her wrist and undid the button at her shirt cuff, then pushed it up and wrote _slut_ across her arm, the firm press of the pen a little ticklish. _Whore_ was the word that went just below it. Lalia watched and bit her lip; the ink took to her skin surprisingly well. She wondered if that was a feature Ezri had looked for when she bought seemingly a million of the same pen. Non toxic, surely. She wondered how easily it washed off. The smeared ink was always somewhere on Ezri’s fingers. At least this, on Lalia, would be hidden by her long sleeved uniform. Then again, Ezri would be able to take that off.

“Hold this up.” Ezri gestured to the hem of her skirt. She did. It was a little harder to make out the words that went across her thighs from this angle: _owned, property, slave, mine._ While any of those would normally just make her smile contentedly, seeing them on her skin in Ezri’s handwriting made her flush a little, but not all just humiliation.

Ezri took her other wrist, unbuttoned and pushed the sleeve up as Lalia let go of the skirt, and paused thoughtfully, tapping her arm with the length of the pen, then wrote, _If found, return to Ezri Roderick,_ which made Lalia giggle more than anything else. Ezri stood. “Over the desk.”

Lalia obeyed, finding the position familiar from various discipline, though she wasn’t sure exactly what was coming this time. Ezri slid her panties down her thighs and she stepped out of them. The skirt was flipped out of the way again, tucked into itself to hold the stiff fabric this time. She felt the pen across her ass, but didn’t think to try to figure out what it was writing until Ezri asked, “Do you know what that says?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Hmm.”

More, other side. She tried this time, but was losing track of lines quickly. Ezri capped the pen, set it on the desk, and swatted her. She jumped. “Oh, that you can feel?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hoped she would do it again.

It evidently showed in her body language because Ezri did it again, and again. Hard, for an impromptu spanking, but in her current state of mind, it mostly manifested as pleasure. “More?”

“Please, ma’am.”

Ezri gave her more. A few more minutes, sting building pleasantly. She could’ve gone for more pain in that moment, but she’d take anything Ezri gave her. She didn’t wriggle and writhe but melted against the desk a little and sighed contentedly.

Ezri stopped and slipped her hand between Lalia’s legs, finding her wetter than she’d imagined, easily slipping one finger, then two, inside her. “Spread your legs.” Fucked her slowly, curiously. “You like that? All exposed over my desk, getting your ass turned red? Any idea what those words say yet?”

Lalia whimpered and shook her head. She pressed back against Ezri’s hand, willing her to fuck her faster, harder, something—but slight understimulation seemed to be the name of the game today.

“Something you want, sweetheart?”

“Please—I want—” What _did_ she want?

“You want?”

“More.”

“More?”

“Please?” She didn’t care what Ezri did to her as long as it wasn’t this agonizingly slow rhythm of her fingers inside her.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want—fuck—harder, faster; I—more.”

Ezri gave it to her. Sped up intensely, her fingers slipping almost all the way out of her and then as deep as they could reach on every thrust. Lalia cried out and writhed against the desk, need building quickly. Yes, this was what she’d needed.

The residual stinging sensation and vulnerable feeling of exposure, helpless to Ezri’s touch, only fueled desire. Ezri would touch her however she pleased; she could stop right now, leave her wet and needy and distracted for as long as it pleased her, and expect her to focus on her service; she could make her come until she was so sensitive she begged for it to stop, even knowing it wasn’t her place, and after. She could spank her again, until she cried helplessly and couldn’t take it stoically any longer, or leave her draped over her desk like this all day, just a decoration, let her handle her duties that night.

The thoughts came quickly, and the pleasure came faster. “Please,” she begged, as her body raced towards that final edge, that sudden spike of pleasure and sensation, clenching and twitching and needy. “ _Ah_ —fuck, please; please, ma’am, I need—please—”

“What do you need?”

“I need to _come_.” It came out on a wail.

Ezri’s hand found her hair and yanked. “Come, then.”

She did, all at once. The orgasm hit her like a powerful wave, overwhelming her, knocking the breath out of her lungs and shoving her under the tide. She cried out loudly as it began and panted and whimpered, “ _Oh,_ ” as it took her, a small moan in its aftermath. “Th-thank you, ma’am.”

“Good girl.” Ezri stopped, her fingers lingering inside her, then slowly sliding out. Her grip on her hair loosened.

Reality was just starting to return when Lalia felt Ezri aligning against her, and then inside her, fucking her before she was fully aware of the brush of the motions that Ezri had moved her own clothes with. She hadn’t yet caught her breath and the orgasmic aftershocks that Ezri fucking her properly induced weren’t going to let her.

Ezri tugged at her hair again and said, “Don’t you dare fucking think about coming again. You had your orgasm. Now I get to use you for mine.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she panted. Still, pleasure built and built again as Ezri used her, and she tried to let herself feel it but not sink into it, desire but not need—it wasn’t so bad a way to come down, really, being fucked into the rounded edge of the desk.

The thrusts came a little quicker, Ezri’s own breathing labored behind her. “Fuck _,_ ” she hissed, and then, “ _Lalia_ ,” on a moan, and came.

After, panting, still inside her, stroking her back, she cleared her throat and said, “As I was saying, I can spend your time however I like.” She slipped out of her and found some baby wipes in a drawer, cleaned herself off, and fixed her clothes, said, “Do you want—no. Stay there a minute.”

Lalia could hear the dangerous smile in her voice, and Ezri picking up her phone from the desk.

“All right, now you can get up.”

Lalia straightened, accepted one of the wipes herself, though she felt a little stupid using it in front of her somehow. It found its way into the trash can, too, as she flipped her skirt back. She found her underwear and put them back on. Rebuttoned her shirt cuffs.

Ezri showed her what she’d done with the phone, which was, to Lalia’s slight horror and slight delight, take a picture. Undressed, bent over the desk, legs spread, dripping wet, still somewhat red from the spanking, and slightly faded ink spelling _please fuck_ across her ass. She turned several new shades of red in the face and had nothing to say to that but stammers.

"Hmm?" 

"Yeah. That… happened." It made Ezri laugh.

They went about their separate routines for most of the rest of the day, but had a slightly early dinner so Lalia could finish cleanup before they left for that night’s event, which they would both attend, MAsT. Again, scouting out trainees.

The local Masters and slaves Together group met in someone’s house not that far away. Before dinner, Lalia had baked some cookies to bring, as they were encouraged to bring _snacks and ideas._ It was a public scene group, not network, but Dennis and Asher were there, too, and were the most familiar people to Lalia, though Ezri easily introduced her to several others as they mingled before they really got going giving official, brief introductions, and talking about the meeting’s discussion topic: practical slave positions.

Lalia caught Asher’s eye across the circle of chairs and couches. They were the only two kneeling on the floor. She had felt at the TNG munch that the network had really spoiled her as far as finding people who could somewhat relate to her, and she felt it here, too, though the discussion, if not the actions, was at least much closer to her reality. One network couple whom she hadn’t met before was present, but they were both on the Owner side, evidently seeking a slave to own together. Their names sounded familiar from a list coming to an upcoming meeting that had resulted from the fallout of publicizing what had happened with TrainingMax, a summit to determine how to stop such things from happening.

Ezri had a lot to say at the present MAsT meeting, and then, slowly, didn’t. Lalia caught an increasing number of comments she expected Ezri would respond to that she didn’t. Perhaps tiring of the discussion of scenarios they didn’t relate to—coming home from vanilla jobs, getting away from kids or roommates, positions used mostly for discipline or sex or events despite the practical disclaimer. Lalia added a few ideas and twisted to face Ezri curiously a few times. She just looked kind of tired, though she gave Lalia permission to shift to a more sustainable position with a small nod. Asher had shifted a few minutes before, though he started bouncing his leg and Lalia tried to pick something sustainable but proper and still. Her hands behind her back hid most helpless fidgeting, at least. Ezri stroked her hair.

There wasn’t anyone present on the right side of the slash who was alone, a different demographic issue than TNG had presented; thus, the night was no longer for scouting trainees.

When the group took a break for bathrooms and snacks, Ezri said to her, “I think I’m getting a migraine. Are you ready to go home?”

“Sure,” she said, because she was definitely feeling the weight of attending this event the day after TNG, social anxiety but also simple introversion. They said a few farewells and departed, the night air refreshing and then cold before they got to the car. “Do you want me to drive?”

“That would be good.”

She adjusted things and dug a container with a few doses of Ezri’s migraine medication out of her bag, handed her one. Ezri looked at her curiously and took it. “Just in case,” said Lalia. She had taken to having a much better stocked bag on her when they went out as it proved useful.

“I love you.” She squeezed her hand. “You’re a good girl.”

At home, Ezri went to bed and seemed to fall asleep or close. Lalia saw to a few things in the house and checked on her now and then. It was a long night and she napped more than slept, fetching Ezri water, trying to soothe her back to sleep when she got listless, lying with her and letting her squeeze her hand when the pain was too much, and after one badly timed incident, scrubbing vomit out of the carpet in the still dark room until the effort of stain prevention had sweat dripping down her skin.

Ezri seemed somehow better rested than she did in the morning, and felt much better, insisting to Lalia, after a sleepy breakfast, “Maybe you need more sleep,” and tucking her back into the bed she had already made and didn’t normally sleep in.

“I’m fine,” Lalia said.

“I know. But try to rest a little longer. Just close your eyes.” She kissed her forehead. “You can get up in an hour, if you really want.”

Lalia was asleep before Ezri left the room.


	4. Enforcement

Lacking any regular commitments, and now with Lalia to leave in charge when there were trainees around, Ezri had recently started a weekly volunteer shift at the library. She was on her way out to it today, picking up from the table their library cards (mostly to pick up holds), the pile of returns, and the reusable zipper bag of cookies Lalia had made to share with the other volunteers. "I'll be back in a few hours. Behave. I love you." She kissed Lalia's forehead.

"I love you, too."

One more kiss, on the lips this time, fingers wrapped around her collar. "Mine."

"Yours."

Ezri left.

Lalia was still a little sleepy even shortly after breakfast but reviewed her to do list. Ezri had talked to the potential trainees further—the two from the TNG munch, and the one recommendation—and they had gone from _potential_ to _scheduled_ , a small group to start, but there was plenty of prep work to be done.

She checked on various guest amenities and resources, paperwork. Went to start the first of two loads of laundry, emptied the first hamper into the wash, and looked at the second hamper, unable to help thinking, _This is stupid._

There would be barely enough to justify turning the washer on again, the trips back to the laundry room, the extra wait time while the machines ran, and the first load had plenty of room. The fabrics weren't so different, really—light towels and top sheets from the guest rooms, all white. The washing was really just for any dust they had collected while not in use. Ezri's house manual if not rules said to separate towels and bed linens.

She combined them.

She found herself coming back to justifying it mentally over and over again. Perhaps it was just anxiety. No, it wasn't entirely proper but it was so minor... the only thing to do about it at this point was to bring it up to Ezri, which felt like a waste of time. She could imagine the kind of blank look of, _I'm supposed to care?_ Or the sigh of having to spend her time punishing something so trivial, now that it had been brought to her, something no one would've noticed. Or a small show of caring but ultimately letting it go as insignificant. Lalia had played that game with partners before, who had admittedly played at D/s more than engaged in real power exchange, let alone M/s.

She just wouldn't do it next time, she thought as she moved the items to the dryer guiltily. No cutting corners. Especially with the trainees coming so soon. She was supposed to be the good example. She actually felt she'd done an okay job of it so far, attending Ezri's meetings with them for initial intake and planning mostly in silence, the waiting position in the living room's designated spot, doing little more than listening and fetching drinks.

Ezri returned and talked about her shift a bit, eventually sent Lalia upstairs to distribute the library holds and go about her day. Ezri found her again shortly after Lalia set her book pile in her own office, and asked, "Did you put the towels and sheets in the same load?" Her tone wasn't especially accusing, allowing for some kind of valid explanation, but the obvious was there.

Lalia blinked in surprise. "I—yes, ma'am." As surprise settled back to guilt, she cursed her own laziness and then the decision to not tell Ezri. She should have known better. Not only behaviorally but logically—Ezri missed nothing.

"Why?"

Her heart pounded, mouth dry. "It was just..." If she couldn't go back and do it differently, or tell Ezri herself, the best thing she could do now was be honest and not offer excuses, apologize quickly. "I was lazy." She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again."

"Yes, it was lazy, and no, it won't happen again." Her tone was sterner now, but something in the sigh was soft. "Above that, I want to know why you didn't tell me."

"I... it was just... like, a little thing—I know, it's all—it's—important—but I just—it wasn't..."

"It was a minor procedural error I was unlikely to notice," Ezri said for her, and added, "I was about to go upstairs and heard the dryer timer go off. Thought I'd help," with a shrug.

It was kind of worse that Ezri had only intended to be helpful, not gone looking for error. "... Yes, ma'am. I just felt—I didn't want to bother you. Waste your time. I wasn't going to do it again. It just seemed... attention seeking. I don't know."

"I expect you to self report. No matter how minor or what your intentions are." She tilted Lalia's chin up. "It isn't a waste of my time. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"We'll come back to that later. For now, you may go get the cane and wait in my office presenting it."

"Yes, ma'am." She gave a delicate curtsy and left, feeling sick. She followed the instructions and Ezri didn't make her wait long. While the real punishment in a way was the accompanying lecture, the cane hurt, too. She cried, but didn't resist, didn't plea, counted the last strokes as required with genuine gratitude. That Ezri had noticed after all, had cared, that she had taken the time and energy to calmly punish her even if it was minor, that she not only set the rules but dedicatedly enforced them. That she was not yet another partner who only played at rules and only when they were easy, who forgot their own supposed standards, who let go of minor or infrequent infractions until disobedience meant nothing.

After, her arms wrapped around Ezri's neck, she said, "Thank you," one more time into her shoulder.

"You're welcome." She kissed the side of her head. "I love you." Another kiss. "And I forgive you. You took that very well."

Lalia smiled a little, if still tearfully. "Am I crazy?"

"For what?"

"I don't know." She drew back a little. "I'm glad you noticed," she said, eyeing the floor. "I'm glad you cared. Not—that I wanted to be punished, but that you... took the time."

"I get it," said Ezri thoughtfully. "I remember... once, I must have been sixteen, seventeen—I snuck out to go to a party. Not like me, but there was a girl involved. Not as cute as you, though." She tapped Lalia's nose. "Anyway, I got home and I was so ready for that—parent waiting up in the living room with one lamp on trope; I had this whole speech ready—and my parents were fast asleep. And not like I was eager to be grounded or whatever, but I remember feeling kind of abandoned."

Lalia giggled. "Yeah. It's a lot like that. So what did you do?"

"Well," said Ezri, "nothing. I don't pretend I'd be a good slave. Do as I say and not as I do." She tapped Lalia's nose again.

She grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

"But I felt very guilty and I don't remember doing it again. Now, Daphne on the other hand... God, it was always something. Girl, boy, otherwise—mind you, this was the early nineties and there were only so many _otherwises,_ so I think Daphne must've been with every one of them in a twenty mile radius—never before curfew. And if you remind me that you weren't born then, I _will_ beat you again." She gave a playful tug at the end of Lalia's braid, not the proper yank from the scalp.

Oddly, it soothed her. The normalcy, maybe. Ezri was always strict and her rules always rigorous, but as long as she was obeyed, she was plenty affectionate and loving. Lalia was content to nuzzle against her again and listen with her head tucked under Ezri's chin as she went off about American society's concept of gender in the eighties and nineties versus now, and how she probably would've still done everything the same even if she was born later, except there was a very good chance she might've ended up identifying nonbinary in the peak of her exploration, and she didn't really think much of those labels now; in crowds that were looking for it, sometimes she got gendered as _they_ and she had never really minded if it was well intentioned, and— "You always let me talk way too long, you know."

"I like listening to you talk."

Still, when Ezri dismissed her, she offered a curtsy and went. She returned the cane to its place and easily kept busy for another hour or so, and then had recently settled sleepily on the couch under a blanket with one of the library books when Ezri found her, sat where space allowed, set a notebook down nearby. "Come here."

Lalia followed the gesture and settled in Ezri's lap, arms draped loosely around each other, the blanket draped loosely over both of them.

"So, I got my thoughts on it together, and I wanted to talk to you about how you felt it was best to not come to me about your behavior. That it was a waste of my time."

Lalia's heart rate began to rise rapidly. She became very aware of the residual throbbing along the marks the cane had left on her skin. "I'm sorry—"

"You know what?" Ezri cut her off with a slight sigh. "Let's just breathe for a minute." She pulled her a little closer, placed Lalia's hand on her chest. "Match my breaths."

Lalia tried. Slow, deep breaths. Tried to feel each one cool with the inhale, warm with the exhale.

"You're not in any more trouble," Ezri reassured her, which made the breaths come a little easier. She'd worried that she had a lecture or even second dose of the cane coming. "Now," said Ezri, "why don't you tell me how you came to feel that way?"

"I didn't—I—I know it was stupid."

"Shh. I didn't say it was stupid." Ezri tilted her head up. "Do I do anything that makes you feel like that?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "Of course not. I just always... worry about pestering you. Anyone. It isn't you. You're always kind to me. Even when I don't deserve it." She looked away again.

"Look at me."

Her eyes flicked nervously up, then instinctively back down.

Ezri tilted her head up again, but kept a firm grip on her chin this time. "You always deserve that."

"I didn't mean—"

"Don't interrupt me. You always deserve my attention when you need it. You always deserve my love. There's nothing that'll change that. And if I ever make you feel otherwise, I want you to tell me. I know it's a fine line with... everything we do."

Lalia gave a small nod in Ezri's grasp.

Ezri released her. "I have a few thoughts on steps to work on that. One, you're going to change your meds. Med. You've just been more and more drowsy, and that can't help your mood, and I haven't actually seen it help your anxiety. Unless the psychiatrist says otherwise."

“Yes, ma’am." She had to agree with the assessment. "I’ll ask." The sleepiness _was_ only getting worse—she wasn't thrilled about the cravings either—and it had yet to help, except the drowsiness objectively improving her sleep. They'd talked about it before.

"Good girl. Two. New rule—task, maybe: you're going to start a daily journal. I don't care about the format—it doesn't have to be much—but something, every day. Any other systems'll be separate. I think it'll be a good introspective outlet. What you write isn't bound by any rules and I won't read it."

"Yes, ma'am." She'd tried to keep a journal multiple times before, and, on her own, failed at it. Submission journal prompts, vanilla ones, mindfulness exercises, therapeutic prompts for anxiety and depression—gave her a bit more of a start. She kept good records—productivity systems, her time logs, training reports, event debriefs, butler's book, the contracts and manuals, recipes, reference material, a spreadsheet of her books, the master shopping list, an occasional scrapbook—but after all that, a standard journal seemed to fall by the wayside easily when it wasn't enforced. She'd told Ezri that before, too.

"Good girl. Three..." Ezri paused. "Well, I know we talked earlier about the line between lenience and neglect. And the one rule I've always been lenient on is you not disparaging yourself. I realized when it started coming up that I had mixed feelings on correcting you for it. It seems hypocritical to beat you for not being nice to yourself. But I now also see that letting that be something—and pretty much the _only_ thing—you get away with—teaches you that it's something I don't value, and that I won't give you the time and attention of correction, which only reinforces that feeling of being undeserving. And it lets such speech shape your feelings. It was unfair to not enforce it, and I'm sorry for that—I should've fixed this a lot sooner, and that was my fault, not yours. So, I'm going to start enforcing it. But—for that kind of rule only, I'll change my method. You'll write lines—just six, it's still correction more than punishment, I'd say somewhere between accident and neglect. As far as the lingering reminder factor, you'll write five of them in the notebook—labeled with name and date—and one of them here." She indicated her left forearm. "And you'll choose one from this list."

Ezri handed her the notebook. Took it back before Lalia had managed to read anything and took the pen out of the pen loop, added one line at the bottom of the first page, the only one with writing, before returning the pen and giving it back.

She had added, _I always deserve my Owner's love and kindness._

The other options were largely the same. Affirmations.

Lalia swallowed and handed the notebook back, nodded.

"Now, if I have to do that three times in a day, I'll think of it more between neglect and intent, and more like punishment than correction. At that point, you're getting your mouth washed out with soap after your lines, and the same for any more incidents that day. It still isn't beating you, but it's unpleasant."

"Yes, ma'am." She said it shyly, but smiled a little, tightened their embrace and nestled her head into Ezri's shoulder, said, "Thank you."

"Of course, sweetheart." She kissed the top of her head. "Now, the preventative version. It'll be more useful mid conversation than scheduled before an event, but if I sense that you're on thin ice or you request it, I'll put you in the corner. Waiting position. Three minutes. To calm your thoughts. And the one line on your skin. And, I’ll leave this—" she held up the notebook "—on the mantel. A separate one for trainees. And some soaps on the downstairs bathroom counter. Any thoughts?"

Lalia considered. "It makes sense. Will you show me how it all works? Like you did with the cane?"

"Yes." Ezri kissed her forehead.

She gave her the painless run through version, as slave and majordomo both—in a way both permanent trainee and trainer in her own right, both disciplinarian and subject to the most exacting of it herself.

After, when Ezri asked, Lalia reflected, "I've never written lines before. Well, I worked on my handwriting for a while and I think that ended up _looking_ a lot like writing lines." She laughed. Ezri smiled. "But not really. And I've never had my mouth washed out, or—oh—the corner..."

"Yes?" Ezri asked curiously as Lalia started blushing.

"Well, I—I put myself there once, just... to see what it was like. I thought it would just feel like, a more submissive meditation thing."

"And?"

"Well, I... I'd set a timer, on my laptop. Fifteen minutes. But it—" she trailed into giggles "—I forgot to turn the volume on. So I didn't hear it go off. And I stood there forever like, I really didn't think fifteen minutes would feel this long, be this bad, but I tried to be good and stay still and wait and all, and then I was like—I got suspicious—and I let myself check the timer, and... it'd been forty-five minutes."

Ezri laughed, leant her head on Lalia's shoulder. "God, I love you. Even if you might actually be a nutjob." She kissed her neck and drew back. "When was this?"

"I was... seventeen, I think. I did it in my room with the door closed. We shared, but my sister was at a sleepover."

"Great, nutjob _and_ a minor." Ezri swatted at her arm.

"Parents put kids in the corner all the time."

"I guess they do. I'll say it's appropriating slave training next time I see it."

"I'm sure that'll go over well."

The rest of the day was mostly uneventful. Lalia watched her speech carefully. That night, Ezri sat with her on her blanket, legs in front of her, pulled Lalia's head into her lap, stroked her hair. "Talk to me, angel. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?" She tapped her forehead.

"Not much." She thought. "Tell me a story? Please?"

"What kind of story?"

"A fictional one." A rare request.

"A fictional story," Ezri echoed thoughtfully, leaning back against the side of the bed. Lalia, parallel to the bed, shifted curiously. "Well. You see, once upon a time, far far away, there was this kingdom, which had a horrible monarchy system which was inherently corrupt, but, they had a very cute princess, who was so sweet and innocent and well behaved it almost made up for her parents' terrible government."

Lalia giggled.

"Of course, the princess had no real political power, because that would be vastly inappropriate. But, this made being a princess very boring. She read all of the books in the beautiful castle library over and over again, with those ladders that slide down the shelves and all, because she was too small to reach most of the books."

Lalia pouted. Ezri poked her lips.

"And then she realized that there were other people in the castle who didn't get to make any decisions—all the servants, who were mostly stuck being servants because of a terrible class system. But they got to do so many things, all the cooking and cleaning and hosting. So she started following them around and learning how to do things. And she got very good at it. And she even got to help them prepare for a really grand party where they were welcoming in the very nice, non corrupt elected officials from a neighboring country with a much better class system. And the president of the other country even noticed, and was very tired of talking to the princess' corrupt parents, and so she started talking to the princess about it, and one thing led to another, and they had a very nice time making all kinds of questionable sexual choices in the castle library."

Lalia grinned up at her.

"And then the president asked if the princess wanted to come back to her country with her, where there was an even better library—available to all of the citizens, of course. And the princess was worried about what she would do in this country she didn't know, when she barely got to do anything in her own kingdom, and the president said she'd get to oversee all of the servants who helped in the president's residence, except in her country, people weren't servants unless they really wanted to be servants, and they'd be so excited to learn all of the tricks the princess brought from the kingdom, and the princess said yes, and then they lived happily ever after. The end."

"Good story." Lalia nuzzled into her with a sleepy smile. Ezri stayed a few more minutes and then left her to sleep.

In the morning, the effects of their conversation the prior afternoon began to show up quickly. A night of sleep in between seemed to have loosened her tongue, and while it sounded so simple to watch the self deprecating comments, it was a deeply engrained habit and wouldn't be perfect immediately, and Ezri was now quick to jump on it.

The first incident. Breakfast. Ezri complimented the food and Lalia was already off about how she thought she'd overcooked the eggs beyond Ezri's preference (which she hadn't), and was halfway through pointing out that she'd forgotten to put the butter spread on the table for toast, when she realized what she was doing. She was met with the order to go retrieve the notebook from the mantel. Given the fact they were mid meal and alone, she was allowed to complete the lines at the table. She selected the, _I always deserve my Owner's love and kindness._

She pondered, after, how quickly she'd managed to screw up on the newly enforced rule. She had taken so quickly to other, far more demanding protocol. Why not this one?

Well, she knew there was a bit more emotional drive behind following or breaking this one. She reflected that it was also not as specific as their other rules, but able to come up in any casual conversation without cue. She meditated on what she could watch for. Compliments, for starters, were something she responded to poorly.

The second incident. She could have laughed at the irony if the infraction was something to laugh at. Ezri almost did, but held firm. They were discussing a FetLife post they'd both seen, which started with an anecdote about the author throwing a tantrum when their Owner informed them that they couldn't wear something to an event (a leather item they hadn't understood the significance of). It was factual more than remorseful, and they loftily claimed to be high protocol, M/s, and Leather, despite the tantrum, assumed freedom to wear what they liked, and lack of knowledge on earned leathers.

Even Lalia understood that part, and she didn't identify as Leather. "I know no one's perfect, but I wouldn't get pretentious about high protocol while talking about yelling at you over clothes," she said. "And not even knowing what a Master's cap is."

Ezri smiled. "No, you'd get pretentious about high protocol while wearing your uniform and reading another book about Old Guard history like a good girl."

"Or at least while just not being able to keep my mouth shut."

It was, of course, out of her mouth before she could stop it, just to negate her momentary narcissism. She sighed and closed her eyes, wrote the lines. Found room on her arm for the second one placed there. _I please my Owner every day and she is proud to own me._

When she was done, Ezri offered, "I figured it would be a rough day or two of adjusting," gently, with a small shrug.

Well, they didn't _have_ a day or two. The trainees were going to be here tomorrow, and she couldn't do this in front of them. That was the only thing worse than failing at it now. At least the pressure of being watched might shut her up.

The third incident. Discussing the impending arrival of the trainees after dinner. Ezri saw a lot of work to be done, but initial interviews held promise, and she already expected better results than she had gotten the time she'd done entry training before. Being pickier to start with. Having a smaller group. Having more experience, herself. Not falling in love with one of them. Having an actual majordomo to be in love with. "I don't think they'll drive you up the wall too much," she said. "You could've never put up with the group I had last time."

"I couldn't even handle Sadie's—" She stopped, but it was maybe a little late, and even if it wasn't, the abrupt stop made the intention of the words clear. It was enough for Ezri, at least, and she wrote the lines again. _I am a good girl of good service and my Owner loves me._

When she finished, still cursing herself mentally as she tried to let the words sink in, Ezri said, "Come with me."

Lalia followed her to the bathroom, stomach sinking with dread. Ezri actually picked up one of the little bars of soap from the pile this time, and removed the wrapper that advertised _recyclable paper_ and _all natural,_ _vegan, organic, non toxic ingredients_. Well, at least they were saving the planet, and she wouldn't go to the hospital if she ingested any of it.

Ezri turned the skin on warm and ran the soap under it, turned it over in her hand. Shut the water. Her other hand gripped the back of Lalia's neck. "Open."

Lalia opened her mouth obediently, then gagged and tugged back instinctively when Ezri ran the soap over her tongue, instantly nauseous, eyes watering. " _Open_ ," Ezri reminded her, grip and voice firm but not harsh. She repeated the gesture a few more times, then placed the bar in her mouth, sticking out slightly. "Close."

She did. A few helpless tears streaked her face, gagging and humiliation. Ezri placed her facing the wall, waiting position. "Three minutes." Ezri released her.

Then, silence.

Lalia closed her eyes. Her jaw started to shake a little from holding the bar and breathing through her mouth was hard, chest tight. The taste was awful. She was just starting to think she might prefer the cane when Ezri guided her away from the wall and took the bar from her mouth—though it clung to her teeth—and said, "You may rinse your mouth out."

She couldn't do it fast enough. Trying to get bits of soap out with her tongue and endless rounds of water that instantly turned soapy was almost worse. It occurred to her how stupid this had to look, but Ezri watched her with only a dispassionate expression.

When it was about as good as it was going to get, she turned to face her, but avoided her gaze.

Ezri disposed of the nearly bitten through soap and wrapper, and rinsed her hands. Embraced her and murmured praise and forgiveness until Lalia relaxed against her. Tomorrow, she swore mentally, she'd do better. It had been a long day. As she let Ezri's reassurance sink in, she gained hope that tomorrow would be easier. Perhaps the worst was over, even if she'd still slip occasionally, even if there were underlying issues to work on. Tomorrow was a new day.

Tomorrow, when the trainees arrived.


	5. The Trainees

Intake, planning, paperwork, orientation—had happened largely in advance. The trainees arrived, unpacked, and were ready for their first lesson by noon.

Lalia met with the three of them for position training. They were in one of the guest rooms and each looked up from whatever they were doing curiously when she came in. Westley sat on his bed with a book; Fiona and Irene talked, each sitting at the side of their own bed.

"Ready?" She had to see herself from their eyes for a moment. While she could feel her heart racing, they saw, what? The gray pleated skirt and white button up, the collar with the network symbol and her name. The clipboard of papers. The position of authority—something she had underestimated the effects of with Sadie.

She got affirmational nods.

"Okay. Well, we're starting with position training. I know everything's in the trainee manual—" she held up her own copy of it "—but we'll go over that and do demos and practice."

There was admittedly a lot to cover, but a lot of it would come up quickly, and it was best to not build muscle memory with uneducated attempts.

She started with a bit of theory. It was an easy subject for her to talk about, checking notes but not faltering much. "But, we'll start with why. So, there's an obvious aesthetic and formality boost, but the real thing with positions is that they're basically shorthand signals. Instead of saying, 'Wait, standing, with your legs together, and hands clasped at the small of your back, with your right hand over your left, and your thumbs crossed, and your back straight, and your head and eyes down,' and the mouthful that is, we just have..." She trailed off for a moment in case someone who read ahead felt like inserting the answer.

"The waiting position?" Fiona tried.

"Yes, that. Good. Which is much less of a mouthful. You don't want to say all that every time you want someone to do that, so you have _waiting position_ as a shorthand. And, then you get to write that into other protocols—like, 'Assume the waiting position in this circumstance.'"

She didn't trail off, letting the vague example stand, but Fiona piped up: "Meals?"

"Yes, meals. Good. So, it makes it easy to know quickly exactly what to do. And so when someone might want the same position again and again, it gets codified. We're only gonna start with a few, but once you get used to learning them, others get easier to add. And some of them jump off of others. Like, don't worry about it yet, but there's a presenting position that's just the kneeling position, but add the object in your hands. Things like that. So, today we're mostly gonna learn two still positions and a curtsy. So, waiting position first."

She set the clipboard down and shifted into the position. "So, like I said, legs together, back straight, head and eyes down. Hands behind your back. If you're keeping your back really straight and keep your shoulders back, you might start pulling your elbows back at a weird angle, too—" she let herself demonstrate "—so you're gonna want to check that you keep them straight at your sides."

She shifted back, and then turned around. "And, hands like this. Small of your back, not too high, but not limp. Right hand over left and thumbs crossed just like this."

She turned again. "Now, if you're in a situation where you need permission to speak, you'll move like this—" she moved her hands in front of her "—wrists crossed, fists closed, right over left, at about the same height."

"Now, if you're in this position but holding something, you're gonna want to hold whatever it is with both hands, which goes for the rest, too." She picked up the clipboard and did so. "That's about it for that one. As said, taken behind chairs at meals and one more thing we'll cover later. Any questions?"

Shakes of heads. One, "No, miss," from Fiona. Not strictly necessary, and she wasn't sure she'd ever be used to it, but she was developing high hopes for Fiona, at least, which was surprising, as she was the only one younger than Lalia, and also primarily a little, and also the only trainee Lalia had met so far who came to training from living with her parents. Her file held an autism diagnosis, but perhaps that diagnostic checkbox of obsession with ritual and routine was mostly just serving her well in this strange environment so far.

"So, kneeling." She put the clipboard down. "First thing's first, you want to lower to both knees at once, not use your hands, and not wobble or tip over a bunch. So—" she demonstrated "—like that. You kind of crouch first and then shift your feet under you and knees apart, so you don't just hit the floor with that thud. It might not hurt that time but if you do it a dozen times a day, it'll start."

Irene, the only self proclaimed sadomasochist, giggled.

"And it can be noticeable. So, it'll look like this, knees about a foot apart, hands palm up on your thighs—almost at your hips—fingers flat and together. They'll point inwards naturally, not straight down your leg, that's fine, that's how it should be. Keep them there unless you need your hands for something else. And, big toes crossed in the back."

She turned and assumed the position again so they could see. "If you're in shoes, it'll just kind of be the toes of the shoes. And your legs will go numb a lot faster, so fair warning."

Another giggle from Irene.

Back to facing them. "Back straight, and if you're not engaged in something, head and eyes down. For permission to speak if you need it—same thing, wrists crossed, fists closed, right over left, close to your torso." She demonstrated. "Now, getting up. You'll want to go to knees together, and then one foot flat on the ground, then up, and the other." She got up. "Again, no hands, no wobbling. And this—" she demonstrated the gesture, a two fingered point down "—is the hand signal that will tell you to do it. Or, basically use in place of sitting. Any questions?"

Westley quietly echoed Fiona's, "No, miss," this time.

"So, curtsy. Traditionally this is a gendered thing and women only, but trying to keep everyone as close to the same page as possible while you're here, and since you don't have uniforms to guarantee you're wearing pants or a skirt or whatever, and it's 2018—we're going to keep it about the same. So, it'll look like this." To be fair, the house was entirely women anyway except for Westley, whose intake interview's gender section said _Male_ with three question marks after it. "So, head lowered, if you're wearing a skirt and you have your hands free, pull it out to the sides, hold it with thumb and forefinger, pinkies slightly out—if not, hold onto whatever it is with both hands, or keep your hands at your sides. So, ball of right foot few inches behind left heel, bend at the knees, and slowly up, let go, feet back to normal, head up. This is for every time you leave Ms. Ezri's presence. Any questions?"

"No, miss," times three this time.

It was a little strange to be in a position of _teaching_ slave positions while, well, _in_ slave positions.

"Good. So, usually for some kind of event, if you're in a situation where you're told to return to the waiting spot for a room when you're not busy, there _is_ a place in every room, and you'll take the waiting position there. So let's go cover those."

The trainees got up and they were off on the tour. They didn't disturb Ezri in her office, but Lalia gave them an idea of where the place for that room was, and simple charts in the manual would show it, too. When they got back to their room, she said, "Okay, we're gonna take until about one for practice, but before we start, I recommend two things. First, stretching. It can get physically hard the first times you really practice. So. Spread out a little." She led a brief stretching routine, rotating joints. It felt a little high school PE but she was gaining confidence slowly, and was not kidding that initial practices could be hard on the knees and more. They mostly followed her movements through basic stretches.

"Second, try to get your head focused. Come sit on the floor." So they all sat on the floor. "And close your eyes. And breathe. And try to just focus on the breathing. In, out. Slow." They did. "Air warms up when you exhale, and cools off when you inhale. Just try to feel that." Let perhaps a minute or two pass of that. Tried to really breathe, herself. "Okay. You can get started if you're ready. I'd go in front of the mirror." There was a totally mirrored wall in both guest rooms; she had to wonder if it they had been there originally.

They all got started. Lalia offered feedback, took some notes. The rough content of the lesson was Ezri's, but the rest was her own. She had found this subject to be one of the most demanding and rewarding of her own training, on an ongoing basis. She watched the others for now, though, except where another demonstration seemed helpful.

Fiona had terrible balance, but seemed to take to the idea of what each step was supposed to look like quickly. Irene was steady, but made other errors, small steps out of order. Westley didn't seem to like practicing in front of the others, self conscious, and struggled a little for it.

They chatted as they practiced.

Irene talked to Lalia about teaching; she herself was a substitute teacher looking to get a permanent position teaching high school science. "But I could do this full time if the circumstances were right. But what are the odds?" She frowned at another out of order curtsy in the mirror. "What'd you want to teach, if it wasn't slaves?"

Lalia laughed. "English. I was thinking middle school."

"God, why? No one wants middle school. No offense." She flipped a few long red strands of hair out of her face and tried the curtsy again.

"Exactly. They need willing teachers the most."

"Well, good on you. I just really don't want to be reminded about middle school at work every day." Another, better attempt.

"—Mood," inserted Fiona. "High school was better. Science was good. I was all about freshman bio for those cell structure worksheets that were like, thinly disguised coloring pages."

"Ah, freshman bio. You get colored pencils and a scalpel; what else could you want?" said Irene.

"And we had a snake," said Fiona. "He was awesome. No scalpel for him." Fiona teetered as she got up from kneeling, asymmetric purple bob swaying. "I wanted my own, but Mom's terrified."

Well, thought Lalia, snake phobia or no, it still took a certain kind of parent to support a neurodivergent, kinky, lesbian daughter, including not asking questions they didn't want answers to about the "kink thing" said daughter had left to attend.

On Fiona's next attempt at kneeling, she was fidgeting for even the mere few seconds she held the position, the main practice being getting to and from the floor. "Try to keep your hands still," Lalia reminded her, trying to be gentle.

"Right," said Fiona, with half a frown. She ran her hands over her densely freckled face. Staying still didn't seem like a specialty of hers thus far, despite other strengths. There was a stim toy clipped through the belt loop on her skirt.

Certain things could be worked with if they simply weren't going to change; Ezri had dryly assured her in initial talks, _"This is slave training, not ABA therapy."_

Westley was the quietest. What had gotten him to talk the most thus far was in an initial interview when Ezri had asked what he did for work and fun, and he started talking about what he did from home in software engineering that Lalia understood perhaps five percent of, an increasingly familiar feeling.

He asked Lalia, "Is this about right?" as he tried the curtsy like adaptation again.

"Looks good," she said.

He beamed so widely it dimpled the bronze skin of his jaw.

"So, what's it like teaching slaves?" Irene asked. "All colored pencils and scalpels?"

"Well," said Lalia, "it looks a lot like this."

Irene laughed.

"I haven't seen any colored pencils or scalpels yet." Speaking _of_ the role from inside it was to be treated with caution. She kept it light. 

"Damn. Well, at least you still get common core bullshit. _Slave_ common core."

"What?"

"Those certificate things, uh—that Ms. Ezri talked about."

"Oh my God. It _is_ slave common core." She had to process that for a second, even though the comparison wasn't perfect.

The conversation was honestly mostly fun, but at one o'clock she left them alone for a bit, to relax or study. She did a check on the house, feeling a huge weight off with the first lesson having gone well. She got a call back from her psychiatrist about the new med, and at the end of the call, was now waiting on it coming in the mail. _The little miracles of health insurance,_ she said in her message to Ezri.

At two, she gave a walkthrough to the trainees of chores. Bed making—their own, for now. She made and unmade one to demonstrate the details: patterned flat sheet face down, so it would have the pattern facing up when folded back over the comforter, widest hem towards the head of the bed, and how to fold hospital corners. She watched them all give it a go to check.

Irene looked kind of bored, yet struggled on the corners. Westley fumbled a bit, asked, "Can you show me again?" but got it quickly after that, again beaming in satisfaction. Fiona took a few tries to get the hospital corners to her satisfaction, but that was more her own scrutiny than Lalia's. And as a final bedroom lesson, how to fold the blanket back for turndown.

Other things around the house. Laundry, trash, floors, surfaces, restocking, tidying. Housekeeping.

It was over by three, and then more time to themselves before starting dinner. Lalia felt in her element teaching familiar routines in a familiar environment.

But dinner loomed.

Meals were a complex thing to train for. Even with only an everyday meal, it was complicated.

There was the cooking itself. Food safety. Using a knife safely. Cooking food to the proper temperature in a timely manner. Checking it with a thermometer. Not handling raw meat without disposable gloves and only on surfaces, cutting boards, that could be sterilized. Timing. Recipes. Basic kitchen skills.

There was the planning, matching sides and entrees, possibly drinks—and making those—and appetizers, desserts. Remembering condiments. Thawing items in advance. Working with food sensitivities, allergies, special diets, sensory issues. Being flexible on how many people you were serving, if needed. How to make ingredient substitutions wisely. Maintaining inventory. Chilling or warming the right plates or glasses or such.

Setting a table properly. Clearing the table properly.

Cleaning up after—things she had taught earlier—dishes and where they went. How to replace trash bags. Which hamper to put used cloth napkins in. So on.

Protocol—the already taught waiting position behind chairs. General table etiquette. And, everything from elaborate culinary events to serving a snack or light meal for one on a tray.

Tonight, though, was the easiest possible version of dinner. Chicken thighs made in the oven, and mashed potatoes. That was it. Simple. One last check of her notes.

And yet.

She had no sooner gathered the trainees in the kitchen at about four, and handed out the recipes, than Fiona leaned on the counter and somehow managed to brush the power switch on the blender, the resulting clamor startling her more than anyone else. Lalia shut it quickly. "Sorry," said Fiona, looking flustered.

"It's okay. So, oven is preheating," she said as she turned on the oven. "To four hundred. Now..." She went over a few of the basics as she did them, put on gloves, put the chicken in the glass tray, smoothed out the skin a little, added seasonings, put it in the oven. She did it herself—it would be ridiculous to split up amongst the three. They'd have their turns at cooking themselves later.

Next, the potatoes. This part, they got to participate in. Rinse. Peel. Chop into maybe sixths or so. Put into boiling pot of water that would amply cover them. (She put salted water on the stove to boil.)

"This is a peeler." Held it up. "This is a knife." Held that up. "They are sharp. The water is hot." Point. "Any questions?"

Laughs. At least one, "No, miss," among them.

So, she let them start on the potatoes.

Irene, perhaps used to scalpels and lab safety, had no issue. Westley seemed nervous around the sharps, but that was perhaps serving him well. Fiona worked carefully, but with shocking immediacy managed to take half of one of her nails off with the peeler. She hissed in pain. 

"Okay, stop, don't touch anything," Lalia told her, digging the nearest first aid kit out from under the sink. "Next lesson: no blood in food."

Fiona half smiled and half grimaced.

Lalia helped her with the wound, removing what hung by a thread and applying antiseptic that wouldn't sting terribly, a lightly wrapped but secure bandaid. Fiona gritted her teeth and said, "Thanks. Sorry. Again."

"It's okay."

The potatoes—peeled, chopped, and blood free—made it into the boiling pot on time. "Okay, so while things cook, we'll go over a few other things." They set the table. "Fork on the left, knife on the right, blade facing plate. Napkin under the fork. Water glasses will go on upper right. Salt and pepper in the middle of the table." And went over some generalities, did some cleanup that could be done early. As they got closer, they set out the waters.

She finished the mashed potatoes herself with a bit of narration, draining them, tossing in butter, milk, salt. Fiona flinched at the sound of the hand mixer as the potatoes were blended. Lalia took the chicken out of the oven after a thermometer check. 

Plating—each their own, Lalia hers and Ezri's—and set on the table. "Protein closest to the diner," she said. Waiting positions behind chairs. Final message to Ezri at six on the dot. One last glance of a check, and she reminded Irene, "Hands a bit farther up," quietly. Irene moved. And, "Legs together," to Westley, who also moved.

Ezri treated dinner largely as normal, coming in, granting permission to sit, giving Lalia a light kiss on the cheek, and sitting herself. They ate with largely casual conversation. Honestly, she had barely seen Ezri all day.

Lalia reflected that meals and sharing that attention had been a source of irritation with Sadie, but not as much with Tamora. With the multiple trainees, they were going to have a bit of variety to teach different skills and allow different opportunities.

Ezri took dinner tonight as a good opportunity to talk about the upcoming consent summit. It was the first event the trainees would get to serve at—not a meal, but snacks and drinks. "It's a valuable opportunity," she said. "It'll be all people on the left side of the slash who have gone to at least six local and network only events in the last six months, so... densely packed group of exactly the people to impress."

She didn't seem to mean it as ominous, though it sent the trainees quiet. Phrased like that, it made even Lalia a little nervous, and she knew several people who would attend already, had a bit of experience, the security of being owned. She needed to impress only to reflect well on Ezri.

But, it was the group that would eventually decide what to do about TrainingMax.

As conversation flowed away from that, Lalia noticed that the trainees were actually rather quiet the whole time. More than that, _watching._ Observing her and Ezri as a dynamic and individually.

Watching her, for a cue of how to behave, a feeling at once both flattering and nerve wracking. Watching Ezri, trying to get a sense of her. Watching both of them, trying to get an idea of this hypothetical dynamic they were being taught in real practice.

She'd thought it with Tamora around—

They were the examples. Of Owner and slave and the dynamic between them. Not just in active demonstration and training, but in every observable moment.

That played in her head during dinner cleanup.

She would check in with the trainees again shortly before evening inspection at nine. For now, they were left to their own reading, practice, downtime.

So she went back to her own office, and found a piece of paper on her desk. Ezri's handwriting, more purple cursive. A fond letter looking back from their first proper day of entry training, and forward.

Ending with:

_There is no one I would rather have with me for this, as my Beloved Shining Example, and have, period._

_I am glad to know I have the chance to be an Owner and not just a trainer and simply enjoy my well trained little slavegirl at the end of the day._

_I love you, angel._

_Love always,_

_Ezri_

She found Ezri and thanked her, but they didn't talk long. Lalia's mind was already on getting the trainees through evening inspection, and Ezri let her focus.

Evening inspection. The trainees were nervous. This was the first time Ezri, not Lalia, was really checking their work—it was a bit more subtle at dinner—and the first obviously _consequential_ time. But it passed without incident. The trainees were sent to bed. Lalia stayed with Ezri, going over the time logs and training reports she had assembled, going over the schedule for tomorrow. It felt distinctively like something in between being the teacher's pet staying after class while they graded papers, and being the TA who basically taught that class staying to debrief and lesson plan.

Whatever the feeling was, it was nice. Her head in Ezri's lap, and praise for a smooth first day. Carefully saying, "Thank you, ma'am," without further comment.

When dismissed, she saw to a few final evening tasks—her journal, for one—and then poked her head into the trainees' room one last time; they were all fast asleep, probably as exhausted as she was. Her body ached for sleep.

She draped a spare blanket over shivering Irene, tucked the stuffed penguin on the floor back in the crook of Fiona's arm, carefully set the glasses Westley had dozed off in on the nightstand. She shut the last dimmed light before leaving.

Maybe the feeling was kind of like having kids, and talking after they were sent to bed. Context and all but one of them being older than Lalia aside.

In the bedroom, Ezri had also fallen asleep already. Also in her glasses, on top of the blankets altogether, light on bright, notebook and pen fallen open to the floor.

With a fond eye roll, Lalia folded the blanket over her, set the closed notebook and capped pen and folded glasses on the nightstand, and shut the light.


	6. Basically Family

In the morning, Ezri succeeded at rolling over and going back to sleep several times. Finally, though, sleep evaded her, even though she didn’t want to get out of bed yet and time didn’t necessitate it yet. There were stirring noises from the floor, too. She made a sleepy, disgruntled sound she hadn’t entirely meant to make that could've been Lalia's name, grabbing at the empty space next to her where Lalia wasn’t, until there came a hopeful, amused, “Should I take that as permission?” from the girl gazing up at her from the floor, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“As an order.” A mumble into a pillow.

Lalia giggled, settling into the bed, inserting herself under Ezri’s arm, nestling back against her. She sighed contentedly; Ezri pet her, the touch ticklish at her side. Pulled her onto her back, her head tilted towards her a little. “Why do you look so pretty in the mornings?”

“It’s—” She caught the response before it went too far, not even sure what it had been in whole. _It’s the tangled hair and—? It’s because you don’t have your glasses on?_ “I’m glad you think so, ma’am,” she said finally, averting her gaze. To err prim and formal was always allowed. “But I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” and a kiss that tasted like sleep, then another, more, and slipping out of pajamas, and Ezri’s fingers under her collar at her throat while she fucked her, and, “If you wake up any of the trainees, I won’t let you come,” hissed against her neck, and need rising and building and not waking the trainees and _relief._

Still glowing a little, if tired from what had been a strangely restless night, dressed and bed made and purposefully rousing the trainees.

Breakfast, the day, and even dinner passed busily but quietly, except for one incident in which Westley tried to microwave some leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil for an unofficial lunch, the resulting crackling sound of electricity and what looked like small bolts of lightning in the microwave making him freeze. Lalia, nearby, quickly yanked the microwave door open to turn the power off and explained, as patiently as she could, that aluminum did not go in the microwave.

Other than that, quiet. They were finishing dinner cleanup when all hell broke loose.

The front door, which Lalia had already checked was locked for the night, slammed open, then shut. Westley, washing the last water glass, dropped it abruptly in shock, and it shattered loudly against the bottom of the sink. When he instinctively went to grab at the pieces, blood dotted his hands and he swore. A cat, which they didn’t have, yowled. Someone who was not Ezri shouted, “Wrong leash!” and then there was the chaotic _thud_ of what distinctly sounded like a person hitting the tile in the entry, and something like paws scrambling over carpet. More swearing, and Fiona, drying dishes, hyperventilating, and Westley still trying to pick up pieces of glass until Lalia swatted at his hands without really meaning to, and Irene, just returned from taking out the trash, staring at Lalia for clues helplessly.

“Okay, stop touching that, and don’t run the water or the disposal,” she said to Westley. “Irene, can you get his hands cleaned up? Antiseptic and bandaids. Fiona—” she offered a squeeze of her shoulders “—breathe.”

With that, she found her way into the entry, and observed Jen, in both a black trenchcoat and leather jacket, putting what looked distinctly like a lockpick set onto the entry table, and trying to disentangle Clara from her own leash, where she was sprawled on the floor, hissing in pain and grasping at her knee. Then, what she could only assume was cat pee trailed on the tile, and a second leash trailed out from underneath a couch.

And Ezri, coming down the stairs, saying, “What in the actual fuck—” She stopped three steps short of the bottom, sighed. “Ah, yes. You two. Should’ve known.”

Lalia managed to not catch her eye and vanished back into the kitchen, grabbed an instant ice pack from the first aid kit that was again already handy, gave it the snap needed to activate, and said, “Irene, can you scoop the glass out of the sink and into the trash? Carefully, _please._ Fiona, take some paper towels and the surface cleaner spray and handle the entry, a cat peed on it.”

“You have a cat?”

“First problem, no, I don’t,” she sighed. “Westley, put those last two away?” Gesture at the dishes.

A few of, “Yes, miss,” in various echoes, and she threw milk and hot chocolate mix into the mixer and turned it on, and returned to the entry, now empty except Fiona, and then forward into the living room, where she slipped the ice pack onto the floor next to where Clara was trying to coax the fanged black cat out from under the couch, who had smartly gotten the leash curled far under there with him. She did another quick sweep of the situation without quite catching anyone’s eye, freeing her to leave at will, catching Ezri’s slightly irritated, “Well, security check aside, you have a perfectly functional spare key; if you want to visit, _use it_. Now why did you bring a cat?” and left again.

As a few voices got raised in the living room, Fiona, disposing of paper towels at the trash can next to Irene with the glass, only seemed to grow more panicked. Westley definitely still had some questions, looking around helplessly, dishes put away. “They’re friends, it’s fine,” she reassured no one in particular, not sure if she was speaking to the break in or the raised voices or the general chaos. She became very aware of her own heart pounding and tightness in her chest, but mostly at the pace of handling the situation.

The mixer beeped. She poured three mugs of cocoa, set them on a tray, threw a few marshmallows and a candy cane in each from the hot drink supplies, and said, “Rinse the mixer, please?” in Irene’s direction a she left and set it on the coffee table in the living room, catching the tail end of the story she pieced together of dropping by for a _security check_ on their way home from a late vet appointment, and the cat’s harness and leash, and Clara’s collar and leash (which was just for fun, hidden in layers of clothing), and releasing the wrong one to remove, and the cat bolting off, Clara bolting after the cat before she could process that her own leash was still tight in Jen’s hand, nearly hanging herself or dislocating Jen’s shoulder as she hit the ground. The Marquis de Whiskerton was now safely in Clara’s arms on the couch as she reached for one of the hot chocolates.

Ezri, rubbing at her neck and not seeming in the mood to look at either of them yet, stalled with a few sips of hot chocolate herself, looking at Lalia instead. “What was the shattering?”

“A glass. It’s handled.”

“Did someone handle the cat pee?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Food got cleaned up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, at least _someone’s_ being reasonable.”

“Speaking of reasonable people,” said Jen brightly, “we come with gossip.”

“Of course.”

“You’re not the only one who’s back to entry training.” She slid her phone across the table to Ezri, traded it for one of the mugs. Ezri looked at the stream of notifications from the surveillance app that could only mean TrainingMax was back on their usual program. Lalia frowned at them over her shoulder, too. The trainees were probably waiting for instructions, but she was now stuck here until Ezri dismissed her.

“Lovely,” said Ezri, sliding the phone back. “Anything interesting?”

Jen shook her head. “Not yet. In other news, it seems Charlie and Naomi are adopting Bailey.”

“They’re what?”

“They’re _fucking_ Bailey,” Clara corrected for her.

“Well, we kinda thought they always were.” Ezri ran her hands over her face. "Any other intrigue?”

Clara held up the disgruntled cat in her lap. “Pet of the month at the vet’s office.”

“You or him?” Ezri asked lightly.

Clara glared at her. Jen laughed.

“Congratulations,” said Ezri, looking at the cat, who offered a hiss back. “Yes, I know you don’t like me.” Another hiss. “How dare I get within three feet of Clara without your blessing.” Another hiss.

“More like _my_ blessing,” said Jen, but added, with a shrug, “He doesn’t like me, either.”

“He does love you!” Clara protested. “Both of you. In his own special way. Isn’t that right?” she cooed an inch from the cat’s head as he turned to hiss at Jen, too. “See, he loves everyone,” Clara said blithely, pressing kisses into his fur.

Jen looked at Ezri. “Can I talk to you? Sans pets?”

“Fine idea,” said Ezri. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Don’t you ‘walk and talk’ me; this isn’t the goddamn _West Wing_ ,” Jen grumbled, though she was standing, reaching for the coat she’d discarded.

“One can dream, Jenevieve. Just get your coat.”

“Okay, Mom.” She continued putting on the trenchcoat she was halfway into, taking a few last sips of cocoa. Ezri retrieved her own coat from the rack.

“Have fun on your romantic stroll,” Clara called after them, and they were out the door.

“I should… check on the trainees,” said Lalia, out of other things to say, and went.

Outside, Jen complained, “God, it’s too fucking cold for November. They said we might get the first snow tonight, you know? So fucking early.” But as she complained and as they walked, she took Ezri’s hand. “And I see the ambitious already have Christmas lights up like it's fucking proper to get to that before Thanksgiving.”

“At least they’re inclusive,” said Ezri dryly, stopping with her to eye the one house’s display that all but lit the whole street, complete with a tree in the yard draped with blue and yellow lights shaped like little menorahs and dreidels. But, she was side eyeing Jen the whole time.

“So,” Jen said, on an exhale, “I came to give you this.” She handed her the object she had stopped at the car for, which she’d held on her other side, and the street was dark, and Ezri hadn’t gotten a good look at. But it was just a folder. She opened it, frowned, skimming its contents in the glow of the decorative lights.

“Not just to break into my house?” Trying to piece together what these papers _meant._

“You should get a better front lock.”

“I’ll get right on it. What the fuck is this?”

Because, of course, she had started to figure out what it was. Held the folder gingerly, like she didn’t really want to touch it.

“I just thought… in case.”

“In case of _what_?”

“I mean, you know… if I get hit by a bus or something. And you have her. You should know. Even if you just want to avoid all of it.”

“Do you think any of it would work? Coming from someone else?”

“I have no idea. You could t—”

“No. No, I’m not—I can’t.”

“I understand. You don’t… do that. You like your moral high ground. I get it.”

“I don’t know that I even want to read it.” And yet, she was desperately curious. Much as she called her friends nosy, she herself was very nosy. And this was a deeply personal record, offered freely. It was a gesture of enormous trust and she knew it. Not only in its potential applications and somewhat incriminating nature, but… because she had always disapproved. She had always said, _I don’t like that you lie to her. I can’t approve of gaslighting. You can never prove her consent again, if you do this. Why can’t you just tell her things plainly? She’s not going to leave. You’re going to give her a dissociative disorder. And hypnotic trigger words are… I know she trusts you. I know she agreed. I know she knows. Just fucking stick to the orgasming by voice command like everyone else, would you? Do you even understand what you’re doing?_

Well, the folder with a complete record of every lie, every trigger word or touch or cue, every way things had been ingrained, every way they could be used—said Jen understood just fine.

“We’ll never agree on this," Jen said. "But you should know. In case.”

“I can’t _un_ know it. I don’t know… exactly how far you’ve gone. I’m not sure I _want_ to know. It’ll just drive me up a wall and—” she sighed. “And we’ll never agree.”

“Is it too much?” _Have we gone too far?_ Not her and Clara. That, she knew Ezri's feelings on. But her and Ezri. A familiar question. Asked among the little touches and fond words and shared beds and long glances and pages of handwritten letters sorting out feelings and—

She fidgeted with Ezri’s free hand nervously with both of hers. _Is it too much?_

“I… no. No, not like that.” The issue was not that the gesture was too _intimate_ in its trust but that… “I’m not leaving,” she reassured her, tucking the folder under her arm and cupping Jen’s face in her hands. “Okay?”

“Okay.” If something like accidental, the kiss was lingering, and if it lacked romance, it lacked no love, a soft, gentle press of her lips on hers.

“I—”

“Sorry. That was…” Brushing at strands of her hair that weren’t loose.

“Yeah.”

“The lights were…”

“Pretty.”

“It was cold.”

“Freezing.”

“There was only one sidewalk.”

Ezri laughed. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” Smile.

“Okay.” Ezri offered a much more familiar kiss on the cheek, and her arm around Jen’s waist. “It _is_ fucking freezing. Let’s go back.”

And they went.

Meanwhile, inside, Lalia reassured the trainees one more time that all was well, and Jen and Clara were friends, "Basically family—not, like, incestuously," and not intruders, lockpicks aside—even Irene, who had met them at a few public events, seemed skeptical—but it was Fiona who asked:

“Are they _always_ like this?”

Trying to think of how to possibly answer that, an unexpected tidal wave of memories hit her.

_Clara’s hand tight in her hair as they kissed. An unlikely but possible contract clause that deeded Lalia to her, Clara’s looping signature at the bottom._

_Worrying about leaving for TrainingMax, hearing of the offer to go with her—_

_“Someone’s gotta look out for your wide eyed little soul.”_

_Later that same day, Clara caressing the blade of a knife. “Quickest way to one’s heart.” The whip at her back and Clara’s laugh._

_TrainingMax, the ER. “We care, too.”_

_Garrett losing his balance and his phone as he was hit. Jen putting herself between him and Clara and Ezri and Lalia protectively. “Come near any of them and you’re dead.”_

_Clara curling up around her in the hotel room later that night, shushing her back to sleep. Stirring in the morning, Clara’s arm still over her waist. In the other bed, Jen and Ezri curled into each other, hand in hand._

_Scrubbing Clara’s blood out of the kitchen tile. Ezri’s sigh at Jen, the, “I somehow missed you being a clinical psychopath.”_

_Laughing until she cried with Asher and Tamora over Clara’s reenactment of the ER incident. Tamora jumping out of her skin when there was the front door slamming and Jen shouting._

_Clara twirling her around, the morning they went to rescue Riley. The warmth from borrowing Jen’s black leather jacket. Jen’s knife inches from Eric’s throat. Eric’s knife inches from Jen’s throat. Trying to catch Clara as she bolted back for her. Clara, silent, staring at the table for hours, later._

_“Why does Jen do it?”_

_“Because she’s an almost psychopath and a pathological liar. This is her idea of fun.”_

_The key to TrainingMax’s front door in Ezri’s hand. A story of being followed and nearly dislocating Amoret’s wrist and stealing the keys, and breaking into TrainingMax, and the way Ezri braided Clara’s hair absently as Jen told it._

_Advice and scrap leather and a newsletter copy and the recommendation of Irene. A story of a whip cracking at Temptation while up in flames and a lifetime ban, and hours of arguing until Jen and Ezri agreed whom they and she and Clara would vote for, and—_

“Yeah,” she sighed, fondly, “they kind of are.”

Jen and Ezri returned from their walk. Clara suggested they get the cat home. This turned into Clara and the cat going home, and Jen saying she’d find her way back at some point later, and staying and talking with Ezri in her office, who emerged for the evening inspection, which thankfully passed quietly.

The trainees seemed a little thrown off, but calmer, and went to bed.

Lalia was again exhausted, and mostly grateful when Ezri kept their debrief short, but offered ample praise, in Lalia’s office this time. “Also, as full disclosure, I kissed Jen. She might have kissed me. It happened. Platonically. It will probably happen again. I don’t think it really changes anything, but…” she gestured “… as far as a box on that QPR checklist you showed me that I’m sure she'd die before filling out.”

“… Okay,” said Lalia, who didn’t really have much to say to that. Ezri didn’t even owe her full disclosure by their exclusivity agreement, though she’d admittedly feel a little weird if something significant happened with someone new without mention of it. The trainees were fair game; Jen and Clara, all but expected. “I… I’m happy for you?”

Ezri laughed. “It’s…”

“Societal expectations of gender, sexuality, and platonic love aren’t real?”

“Something like that. I love you.” She kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. “In whatever way society wants to label it.”

“They’d probably call it some horrifically abusive way. Controlling and all.”

“Well, there’s that, isn’t there?”

She wasn’t really sure what she’d sent that checklist to Ezri for. The fact was, a lot of their relationships rode strange lines. Ezri and Clara had never labeled their relationship romantic, while it had once been a power dynamic in nature, and they’d still played since, fucked since, would again. But there were definitely a lot of elements that had ended—at least ended in regularity—with their consideration contract. But, they touched and cuddled and held hands and such. Strangely, they did not seem to share a bed. Then again, it was entirely possible that they never had—that it was one of many leftover elements of power exchange between them, even if it was not a part of Clara’s primary power dynamic now. On the explicit power side, she knew that Jen had told Clara to obey Ezri’s orders second to only her own and expected her to respect her as an authority.

You couldn’t fairly label Lalia’s own relationship with Clara platonic, since they’d had sex and would again, but _romantic_ didn’t seem right, either. They were largely friends until they were fucking, and then they were fucking. Play was its own messy thing to define. Yet, their lives were deeply entangled. And Clara played with her hair and kissed her on the cheek and held her hand and slept— _slept_ slept—close to her at times. At events in the majordomo role, Lalia often got status over Clara. In scenes, Clara was largely the Top, sadist, but to say _Dominant_ seemed inaccurate. Yet, when Lalia was the one giving, it felt like no more of a role trade off than it did with Ezri. She had not really been told to generally _obey_ Clara, or that wasn’t the emphasis, but that Ezri expected Lalia to show her ample respect—more general, than as an authority—and to especially make herself useful. And at the end of the day, neither of them was ever truly the person— _a_ person—in control.

She’d never played or fucked with Jen—the thought made her a little nervous, if anything—and they seemed mutually disinterested if not opposed. Yet, their lives were also deeply entangled and behind only Ezri, Jen had consistent power over her, if it was rarely used. They were affectionate with just a light touch beyond normal friendship.

Of course, there was even Lalia’s relationship with Ezri, which was labeled all but romantic. Yet, it always appeared so to the outsider.

“On another note… same note… I don’t know anymore," said Ezri, "how do you feel about playing with Clara more often?”

Lalia wasn’t sure what showed up on her face—she felt mostly confused by the question—but Ezri added:

“You may speak freely.”

“I mean, that’s… fine by me?” She always enjoyed playing with Clara, though she wasn’t to ask for play from Ezri; the line got a little messier, with Clara. “I… why?”

“Well,” said Ezri, “once upon a time, Jen and Clara’s goal was largely… shall we say ‘monogamy’ with infinite air quotes around it.”

Lalia laughed.

“Of course, that got complicated by a few things, one being me, and one being that Clara’s the sort of Switch who goes stir crazy without a chance to Top now and then, and neither Jen or I switch. And it hasn’t been a major issue, because it’s not insanely frequent, and Jen isn’t quite _that_ possessive, but they always thought—well, Jen always thought, at least, I don’t know if Clara thought much of it—it would be best, if there was a way to limit that to a person or two without it becoming too much of its own Thing…”

“If they close their ‘monogamy’ to just us, it’s small and we both have another primary dynamic so it’s not threatening. But it would be more often.”

“Exactly. That was, ah, another fun relationship conversation I’ve had this evening.” She rubbed at her neck. 

Lalia laughed. “It’s been…”

“It has. If you want, to sleep on anything—”

“No, no, I—I mean it’s not really, my say.”

“I know. But I want to know your opinion.”

“I’m not opposed. At all.”

“Good.” Ezri kissed her forehead. “Still, you should go get ready for bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Curtsy, and she was gone.

She did a last check on people as they all headed towards bed, the trainees, found pajamas of Ezri’s to lend Jen—they could probably not have traded daytime clothes, but pajamas fit—and slept fitfully again. She swore that knowing she was changing meds took away the few positive effects of the one she was on. Jen and Ezri were quiet enough and it didn’t feel overly uncomfortable—if a little strange—to have both of them there. The trainees seemed to stick to their room, no sounds discernible. The wind picked up a bit outside, but nothing disruptive. She considered wandering the house, to her office where she could turn on the light to read, or maybe seeing if a snack helped.

Jen stirred, a little suddenly, but nothing that would’ve woken Lalia if she was asleep. She didn’t frown at it until she picked up indecipherable whimpered words that sounded distressed, but by the time she sat up at all, Ezri was shaking Jen’s shoulder and calling, “Hey. Wake up. Just a bad dream.” A kind of softening of her voice that indicated Jen was now awake. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A bit of quiet, then, “I just need some air.” Jen left. Ezri seemed to fall back asleep.

A few minutes passed and Lalia, mostly bored of staring at the ceiling, considered following her. She knew what kept Jen up at night, in the vaguest of ways—not much more than _physical abuse and neglect—_ even that not easily shared, but Ezri had slipped it into other disclosure conversations with her blessing. In the end, anxiety disorders were anxiety disorders, if she’d never talked to Jen about it directly, which was starting to seem par for the course. And as Ezri slipped back to sleep, Lalia slipped out, checked on the trainees—fine, fast asleep—and then followed a source of light downstairs. The kitchen lights. Jen sat at the island giving her phone a kind of blank look, started when Lalia came in.

“Sorry. Hi.”

“Hi," Jen breathed. 

“I was just… couldn’t sleep, either. If you don’t want company, I’ll…”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just—considering a snack.”

“Me, too.”

“Well, what ideas did you have?”

“Do you want pancakes?” She wasn’t sure why that was what came out of her mouth. It was two o’clock in the morning and only so many conventional rules of food applied. But breakfast, comfort food, seemed about right. Maybe a bit more than a snack, more of an offer of conversation than an offer of food, but…

“I would love some.”


	7. Reform

Lalia started making the pancakes. Talked about how the bookbinding was going, thanked Jen for the advice and materials, which she brushed off. Asked politely about the leather shop and then work, getting a shrug and, “Fine,” respectively. Nothing seemed to be piquing her interest or usual animation. Lalia was wondering if it was better to just cook and shut up when Jen asked her, “So, what has you awake?” in a tone that told her that her mistake had been safe, innocent small talk.

“The med I was on wasn’t working or really fixing my sleep. I’m waiting on a new one.”

“But what broke your sleep?”

“I was never good at sleeping.” She shrugged, shifted, eyes on mixing the batter. “Anxiety?” Not sure what she could offer here. Nothing in particular kept her up. Her final night at TrainingMax sometimes creeped into her dreams, but not with the frequency or severity she perceived of Jen’s trouble dreams. Yet the longer the silence went on, the more she added, very aware the simple tactic was working. “Nothing in particular. Just… always been like that.” Stirring. Finally countered, “What has _you_ awake?” although the answer was somewhat obvious.

“The usual.” Which sounded like another question brushed off, perhaps more interested in asking than answering the personal questions. But when Lalia turned from turning a burner on under a pan with butter, the look she got was challenging, daring her to ask.

“I’m sorry,” she said instead, but then found the once hopeful therapist in her, steeled herself, and added, “Anything in particular?”

“Ah, there’s the psychology major Ezri promised,” said Jen knowingly, but didn’t answer. “She said you wanted to do the whole making a difference thing.”

“I did.” She poured the batter into the sizzling pan.

“So what brought you to slave trafficking instead?”

Lalia laughed. “As you can tell, I clearly wasn’t gonna be much of a therapist. Social work—I dunno—I worried it would just drain me, like, emotionally. I didn’t want to be another ‘make a difference’ type who got too worn down for it to matter. I might’ve gone into research, academia, if I wanted to pay for another degree, but I didn’t. Teaching, I figured—was most likely. And teachers can make a difference for kids who _don’t_ get therapy. But, I dunno—I mean, the opportunity—to do this—was… it was interesting. It felt like somewhere in the middle of therapy and teaching. I still _teach_ but it’s so much more personal, small group, 24/7, it’s like… I can really see the difference. And it’s not just academic. It’s kind of like life coaching. And I guess everyone thinks we’re like, slave CPS or whatever, so there’s that.” She had talked so long she had to flip the pancakes. “Did _you_ consider becoming a therapist?”

Jen laughed. “No. I just watch a lot of psychology videos on YouTube. So why the slave side?”

“What?”

“Well, everything you just said is the trainer side.”

“Oh. Well, I always wanted that. I mean, without the words for it for a long time, but. I always… I dunno. It’s kind of like the make a difference thing, but smaller. A massive, lifelong difference, for one person. It’s like—you know the Manifesto for Maintenance Art?” She slipped pancakes onto a plate, slid it to Jen with silverware, shut the stove.

“No; I don’t think so.”

Lalia got her the syrup she remembered her using when Ezri had made pancakes last. “Anything to drink?”

Jen waved her off, adding syrup.

Lalia got to adding to the batter for her own batch of pancakes. “Well, it’s like—it talks about how there’s the revolutionaries and creators who make things and change things, and then there’s the people who maintain those new things and changes. And keep all the little stuff going. ‘After the revolution, who’s going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?’ and all that. And that it’s an art in itself.”

Jen tilted her head curiously. “Okay.”

Lalia added more butter to the pan and lit the stove again. “Well, I always liked the idea of finding one of those—I dunno. Tortured artists. Monomanic creators. And being the one who handled everything else so they could just do what they did best, what they were really passionate about. Maintain what they already did, so they could do new things. Being… that enabler. Since I didn’t do anything worth being on the other side.”

“Was the point of the manifesto not that being the enabler was a worthwhile art in its own way?”

“Well, it kinda was. But there’s still the two sides.” She bit her lip, thought, added the batter to the pan. “I think it was meant to glorify being on the maintenance side instead of having it be overlooked. But not claim it’s the same thing. Maybe equal, but not the same.”

“Mm.”

“So, what brought you to _having_ a slave?”

Jen considered. “Well, it was never going to work, otherwise.”

“It?”

“Romance. Relationships. Marriage.”

“Why not?”

“Well.” Ate another bite of pancake and then said, “I’m not a very good person. And I don’t like to compromise.” Pause. “Beyond that practicality, I wanted a masochist more than I wanted a slave, per se.”

Lalia flipped the pancakes. “Okay.”

“We both—Clara, me—get a lot out of pain. We both need it, from opposite sides. I get to hurt her as much as I want without like, getting arrested; she gets her fill of pain without getting too damaged. And we both get catharsis and emotional regulation from it we’ve never gotten anywhere else. And it’s a creative and sexual outlet. And it’s tied to power for both of us. I have to be in control to get what I really need out of giving pain, and she has to surrender to get what she needs. It’s an expression of the power dynamic but it’s also what drives it. And given that pain is a need, and I’m the one in control of it, it’s basically controlling her access to a drug. Some of it’s physical. A lot of it isn’t. Her submissive archetype, so to speak, is the noble victim, the whipping girl, the martyr who destroys herself in the name of some cause—here, me—which happens to be what’s destroying her. Beautiful tragedy. The Stockholm Syndrome complex. We’ve called it ‘abuse without the hassle’—there’s all of the long term intensity without the actual danger of injury or death or financial ruin, hurting anyone else, abandonment, what have you. If I break her, I fix it. And she still loves and trusts me, and I still love and trust her, whatever people think. Do you get that?”

Lalia slid the pancakes onto a plate, shut the stove, got silverware, sat next to Jen at the island. She saw some, but not a lot, of herself in the description from Clara’s side. She was more of a sometimes, and relatively light, largely physical, masochist. She understood catharsis and regulation and the sex appeal, pain as a form of submission and sadism as a creative outlet. The rest was a bit much. She kind of liked wearing herself down in her service a little— _people who love what they do wear themselves out doing it—_ going to bed exhausted after a productive day, but that was more the feeling of a job well done than anything else.

She took a bite of the pancakes and said, “It makes sense. I’m not much good at masochism, but I get it.” More pancake eating. Stalling. “It’s a little ‘the dark triad: collect them all’ for me, but I get it.” She wasn’t sure if she’d regret the sentence, but it was two in the morning and she was talking around mental health issues via BDSM topics with her Owner’s “not lover” who was old enough to be her mother, and all social conventions were off.

But Jen only laughed. “We try. Sometimes we fail, but we try. It’s not for everyone. It sounds like you’re just right for Ezri’s level of sadism.”

“I guess.” It came out a little distracted, processing what Jen had said and feeling like she was forgetting something, but before it came back to her Jen asked:

“Are you looking forward to Christmas? The trip?”

“Yeah. I think so. Are you?”

“I’m trying to get through November first. But it’ll be fun. It always is. Have you talked to any of Ezri’s family?”

Lalia shook her head, chewing. Heard stories, overheard some of Ezri’s half of phone calls, seen some pictures, but that was all.

“Well,” said Jen, “do you ever wonder how someone like Ezri, just, exists?”

Lalia laughed, but she knew what Jen meant, nodded.

“I think meeting Noah and Shoshana will answer all your questions.” Ezri’s parents. “Daphne’s fun. There was one trip she and Clara fucked, and I don’t think Ezri’s ever recovered from that knowledge. I’m pretty sure that’s why they did it. It’s definitely why I approved it.”

_Oh, the tangled webs we weave._

“And you’ll get to meet the kids.”

Lalia remembered, very abruptly, that Jen legally had two step children. The only thing that terrified her more than the idea of Clara around children—despite the fact it clearly turned out okay time and time again—was the idea of Jen around children. Then again, both of “the kids” were older than Lalia, another thing she tried not to think about too hard, like Clara fucking Ezri's sister. “It’ll be great,” she said, though it sounded unconvinced.

“Nervous?”

“I just don’t want—to get in anyone’s way. They don’t want me in the middle of their family thing. And I don’t think I’ll do a great job of pretending to be Ms. Ezri’s PA for long if I talk too much.” She hopped down from the barstool and started cleaning their empty plates and other dishes.

Jen laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. They already don’t believe that. Shoshana was interrogating me about it last time I called. She can’t wait to meet you.”

“Are you all—in touch?” 

“Clara and I do a game night or movie night with Noah and Shoshana maybe once a month. Online, I mean. Daphne’s in touch now and then. Doesn’t believe Ezri has a PA either. But very eager to find out.”

“That’s… nice. To be in touch.” Other than nervous about Ezri’s unconvinced family, she felt a pang of… jealousy? Guilt? In the silence. 

“Ezri says you blocked yours. Family.”

“Yeah. I did.” Worked up her nerve. Journaled about it. Realized how badly she wanted to never hear the voicemails again. That she was never going to figure out something good to text back.

“Good. Not your job to deal with it.”

“I do feel bad. Like I owe them. I should be _able_ to—deal with it. Answer. But I can’t.”

“Don’t.”

“I know.”

“You don’t owe them jack shit.”

“I know.” She squirmed, shut the sink. “But it wasn’t—it wasn’t so bad. They did provide for me. And I mean, they didn’t—it wasn’t like…”

“They didn’t hit you?” Jen finished for her.

“I know that’s not the end all be all—”

“Listen to yourself. You studied this. If the best thing you can say for them is that they didn’t hit you or starve you when you were a helpless child, they don’t deserve you.” Jen sighed, stood. “C’mere.”

Lalia did, settled into the tight embrace with a fresh wave of sleepiness. “I didn’t mean they were good. But I’m sure it was worse, for you.”

“It was different. That’s all. None of them deserve _better or worse_ awards. Or phone calls. Just let Ezri’s family adopt you and be done with it like the rest of us.”

Lalia giggled and drew back. “Okay.”

“But while we’re on the topic of emotional issues, I feel the need to warn you that you’ve broken that self deprecation rule six times now, I think.”

Lalia _felt_ the color drain from her face. She had forgotten it entirely. God, she was tired. Fully working or not, the medication did have some hold, and it was the middle of the night.

“I thought it was a dumb rule to begin with because I don’t think bottling up those feelings fixes anything, but Ezri seemed very fixed on it by the time she mentioned it.”

“I’m allowed to journal about it,” was all Lalia could think to say. Nausea, fueled by guilt, anxiety, and the memory of soap in her mouth, and perhaps middle of the night pancake choices, was muddling her thoughts.

“Ah, yes, shaming those feelings as something to be expressed only to yourself is so much better,” said Jen with sarcasm, but not entirely unkindly. “I’ll handle Ezri.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Something like anger boiled.

“Because Ezri should know how many times she would’ve cut off a conversation I think was important for you.”

“What happened to not interfering in each other’s dynamics?”

Jen just gave her a look until Lalia muttered, “Fair point,” running her hands over her face and trying to breathe. Turned to put dishes away, trying to do something with her shaky hands. 

“Just leave her a note and go back to sleep. There’s nothing else to do about it until the morning.”

Lalia nodded absently, already mentally composing that note.

Jen offered a blithe, “Goodnight,” and headed for the stairs.

“Goodnight,” Lalia echoed.

Many of the ephemeral mental drafts cursed her own stupidity; a few of the later ones projected that anger outward, cursed Jen’s existence. None of which found its way into the note she left on Ezri’s desk, after finishing cleaning the kitchen. 

One more check on the trainees.

Back to the bedroom.

Jen, curled up against Ezri’s side, seemed fast asleep.

Lalia, settling onto her blanket, felt unsure of if she should feel angry or jealous or guilty or anxious, but she’d never been good at anger, always turning it inward in the end, and jealousy always seemed petty. Trying to untangle Jen’s intentions and methods just gave her a headache, and she was asleep faster than expected.

In the morning, Ezri woke to two notes. One, set on her nightstand, was in Jen’s handwriting, which looked, as always, like the font most humans picked up when they were frustratedly trying to get a failing Sharpie to work, except it was written with one of the million functional purple ballpoint pens, and said only, _We should talk._

The other, left centered at her desk, was from Lalia—signed as such—in her own neat, functional handwriting, and more verbose. The contents were clear if not thrilling, but Ezri felt confused factoring in the other note.

Lalia was still asleep, but Jen, always up by five at the latest despite any middle of the night conversations, was in the living room, glaring at a laptop.

“Okay, what… the fuck?” Ezri asked, holding up both notes with one hand and rubbing at her eyes with the other, displacing her glasses.

“Ezria, dahling, good morning~”

“Don’t, Jen.” She hadn’t had coffee yet and wasn’t in the mood. The lack of teasing full name was purposeful, oddly an address that always stung between them.

“Well. What would you like me to say?”

Deep breath. “What happened, and why?”

“Well, I got up around two, and so did your slave, and she made pancakes, and we talked.”

“And you made her break the self deprecation rule six times.”

“Why is this my doing?”

Ezri looked at her.

“I didn’t _make_ her.”

“Mmhmm.”

“A few nudges. That’s all. Wasn’t what the whole conversation was.”

“Then let’s move onto _why_.”

“Because it’s a stupid, damaging rule and you weren’t going to see that without an extreme. I think she got somewhere. I think she’s starting to get it in her head that she’s in a dynamic she likes now and no matter what people say she _should_ want or who she _shouldn’t_ cut out, she’s happy and she has people who love her and that’s what matters. And she shouldn’t put up with any bullshit or bottle up any guilt or shame over it because she might actually manage to get rid of those emotions if there wasn’t the complication of being told that _feeling_ is bad, and getting cut off the minute she might work through that in the next sentence.”

Another deep breath. “I’m not trying to shame those emotions. But speech can influence thoughts, too. If she gets to say those things without my interference, it’s like I don’t care or I agree.”

“You do know you can show you care and disagree without punishing her, right? Just, if she’s like, ‘Wow, I’m terrible,’ you can say, ‘No, you’re not,’ or ‘Maybe, but I love you anyway,’ and like, move on?”

Ezri was quiet, considering. Jen shut the laptop and stood, paced.

“There are… some reasons for the rule that are separate,” said Ezri slowly. “I wouldn’t want her doing it with certain business contacts just as a…”

“Well, yeah, don’t shit talk your services to people you want to pay for it. But what does that have to do with talking to you? Or me? She can keep that separate. You’re so fucking eager to solve everything with rules and operant conditioning, it’s like you don’t _think_ sometimes.”

Ezri made a gesture that meant _be quiet_ ; the last thing she wanted was roused trainees asking questions right now.

Jen paced over to her. “And,” she said, much softer, arms around Ezri’s neck, “I know you're the optimist who believes that rules and discipline and reinforcement are for your own good and people act in the interest of their subordinates, and trading in freedom always gets you security back. And God, I love that weird little world you've built in your head, and that you came straight out of that utopia somehow, and that you're the most goddamn ethical sex slave trafficker I've ever met, and that you're so _good_ you can't fucking understand how evil some people are. But remember that Lalia doesn't come from that world. And neither do I. Call me a libertarian or whatever, but rules don’t always keep you safe. And yeah, your consistency and all in that is one form of love. She knows that. But I think in reality she's still getting used to that, too. Learning that it's safe to count on. So just tell her all that sometimes without a whole second disciplinary system or whatever.”

“I don’t want her to feel abandoned. Like I gave up on her.”

“Then fucking explain that to—”

_“Shh.”_

“Then make her understand that,” Jen finished in a frustrated stage whisper. “You’re still trying to do what’s best for her, aren’t you? You still want to challenge her?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Shrug. Kissed Ezri’s cheek, then an experimental kiss on the lips that felt right, and let go of her.

Ezri thought through what she was going to do about all of this. Not sure what showed up on her face, but Jen sighed:

“You’re still gonna punish her, aren’t you?” and sat on the couch again.

“Likely, to some extent.”

“I don’t know what else I can say to convince you, but tell her that wasn’t my intention.”

“Noted.”

Something also hard to pin down changed in Jen’s expression, which made Ezri instinctively turn to the doorway. Lalia, dressed like the other two, but looking even sleepier than Ezri, and more nervous.

“Lalia, sweetheart, we should talk,” Ezri said, and offered her hand; Lalia took it. Ezri gave her a light squeeze and a somewhat tight smile, and said, “If you’ll excuse us,” to Jen without waiting for an answer, then led Lalia back upstairs, closed the door to her office behind them.

Lalia knelt in front of her where Ezri sat in the chair, turned away from her desk. “Okay,” she said, “obviously there’s…” She paused. Where to start. Cleared her throat. “It has come to my attention,” she said formally, “that the self deprecation rule has some problems and adverse effects. I still think it was unfair to set it and not enforce it, but I now also see the problems with enforcing it. None of which are your fault, to be clear. But I don’t want to force you to hide feelings from me or our friends, and I don’t want to imply that having those emotions is an infraction. Of course I want you to think well of yourself, but I’m not angry at you or disappointed in you when you don’t. What I’m trying to say is, I’m largely revoking that rule and we’ll see how it goes. There are a few business reasons to apply it I’m sure you can imagine, so let’s say keep it to me, or Jen and Clara—I’d add Dennis and Asher—and anyone living here, like trainees. I’ll be changing this for them, too, but I won’t go into detail on why.”

In the pause, Lalia said, “Yes, ma’am,” slowly, thinking, still a little foggy minded, and unsure of what else to say. It seemed Jen had gotten her way.

“Now, there is the matter of last night’s incident.”

Lalia swallowed and nodded.

“I had to think about it. This rule was in effect at the time. But I also understand you were somewhat manipulated in an… unexpected way. And no, I wasn’t happy about that, but I understand the reasoning. In the interest of not dropping my obligation while acknowledging that, I will halve the consequences you would’ve earned. Leaving you with three rounds of lines and two rounds of soap, one of which you can complete with the lines before you have to wake up the trainees, and the other after breakfast. I’d also like you to write a check in report on any and all feelings about the course of this rule and any similar ones, like speaking when spoken to or the not asking for play rule—actually, add your thoughts on that in terms of maybe playing with Clara more, too—and you can have that done by evening inspection on Friday. To be abundantly clear, the report is a communication measure and not disciplinary in any way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Silence. Ezri wanted more from her that time.

“I… understand all of those conclusions. I think I’d understand no matter what you decided, but…”

“Do you think there were better conclusions?”

“No, no; I don’t think so. I just mean it’s… hard… to say. I think I’m being objective that those are the right conclusions, but I know I’m… susceptible. To you.”

“True.” Tucked Lalia’s hair behind her ear. “Go get the notebook from the mantel and return.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Stood, curtsied, turned to the door—

“Oh,” said Ezri, and Lalia turned back to her; “before you do, Jen would like it on the record that she didn't intend for you to be punished at all.”

“I… understand.” Not sure what else to say, shifting uncomfortably.

“To the extent anyone understands Jen’s intentions,” Ezri muttered, but waved her out. “You may go.”

Lalia avoided eye contact with Jen in the living room, who let her, retrieved the notebook, and returned. The lines weren’t so bad, if the spacing for the ones on her arm was a little poorly planned. The soap was kind of terrible, but knowing she had more coming after breakfast was worse and did not inspire an appetite. She tried to decide mentally what she disliked about the soap so much; it was uncomfortable and the taste was unpleasant, but it wasn't painful. More, it was humiliating and childish in a way the lines or cane simply weren’t. But that wasn't quite it. Something in the intimacy of it, Ezri close to her, hand at the back of her neck, and running the soap over her tongue—was… unsettling? Intense? Even without pain. She shuddered thinking about it.

If the trainees thought she was off, they didn’t note it.

By the end of breakfast, Clara, also looking tired, had arrived to pick Jen up; she brought the mail on her way in. It included Lalia's new medication. Well, she'd sleep well tonight one way or the other, she thought. It had been a long day and it was barely ten in the morning. Jen and Clara left shortly after—they had a few things to cover, monogamy agreement wise, too. Then it was cleaning up breakfast with the trainees, and going back to Ezri for round two. Unpleasant, but at least over this time. 

Still, she had a day of focusing on the trainees ahead. There was a lot to do to get them ready for the consent summit.


	8. Preparations

It was a busy day. Lalia met with each of the trainees individually for about two hours a piece, answering questions about the summit—logistics of serving and how the consent summit had come to be—soothing worries, drilling on weak spots of relevant protocol, advising on what to wear, including tying of white ribbons and name tags, discussing their latest assigned reading and essays, giving further assignments, and, in case any interest was struck, updating their files.

Considering that training was only a few days in, the files were robust.

Aftercare, needs, limits, desires, safewords, roles, involvement in the network and public scene, past partners, FetLife and other social media profiles, references for vetting, training notes, STD test results, birth control proof, BDSM checklists, network and vanilla certifications, reading done, written assignments, personality test results, name, age, living situation, driving records, education and employment, health, religion, politics, credit report, background check, pictures, insurance information, contact information, hobbies, family, pets, finances, what they were seeking—

It was exhausting.

Fiona could not for the life of her get the white ribbon tied neatly when she insisted on practicing it, and while they finally got a few successful attempts, she would practice throughout the day and find Lalia—mid meeting with one of the others—to ask if it was correct, though Lalia assured her that she could help her the next day if need be. She still tripped over her curtsy frequently—which there was not much to do for other than practice, something she also came to Lalia with throughout the day—and still had the issue of not holding still, for which Lalia suggested fidgeting in ways that weren’t particularly visible, like tapping toes inside shoes, or squeezing her hands together slightly where they were clasped behind her back—something more than that if really need be tomorrow, as for the summit she’d have her back to a wall—or slight motions of her tongue inside her mouth. If she really got too antsy mid shift, she could ask Lalia to trade to back of house sooner than planned. Throughout the day, she also tried some of these methods and would ask Lalia to check for visibility.

Westley had many worries about the summit—logistically and the whole concept both—and also hesitantly asked if he could put _he/they_ on his name tag and wear a black skirt, which was approved, though he confirmed this several more times.

Irene’s version of the waiting position got sloppy quickly when held for more than thirty seconds. Lalia advised making body and posture scanning a habit, and using a timer to do so. She could use a wrist timer tomorrow, set to a subtle vibrate setting that would turn off after a few seconds automatically and repeat every few minutes.

Lalia was really starting to understand how _seven_ entry trainees—many with far more bleak prospects than these three—and no majordomo to assist, had been miserable for Ezri, falling in love with one of them aside. Encouraging the trainees to try a more heuristic approach over constant check ins only got so far. But today was mostly done, dinner over, and tomorrow they’d do final prep.

Tonight, Fiona wanted to go to a meeting of the local Little Scouts troop, a group for ageplayers. Lalia was her ride—Fiona couldn’t drive—and was to accompany her to the meeting, which she regarded with a bit of dread. Mostly due to exhaustion, though…

It wasn’t that she disliked littles. But as a primary role, it was about as far in the other direction from where she identified as you could get without straying from the right side of the slash. Oh, she had a few of the surface tendencies—some that were a reflection of Ezri’s maternal tendencies—and there was the matter of their actual age difference (and, in the jokes, height), but…

With her core passions being service and usefulness rather than childlike dependence—and prim and proper, adult protocol far above too much whimsy and playfulness—she tended to rub some littles the wrong way, even those who also identified as protocol or service focused. Let alone the high brat overlap.

She pondered that the _childishness_ of the soap as a punishment was definitely a factor in why she felt the emotional effects of it so intensely. It was not strictly in the sense of humiliation, but something in the… dark parental intimacy. Bent over Ezri’s desk, the cane, was physically painful, and certainly put her back in her place, but it was, in its own way… distant. It was the principal versus the parent. Both associated with children, but one was more… intimate.

When she was good, when she was in her proper place—she was a slave, and that wasn’t a bad thing to be. Their day to day dynamic was not built on humiliation—however they twisted it in play—but in dignified, adult, willing submission. Enough so, in fact, to pass on the skills it required to others. But when she had displeased Ezri, there was a bit of the _if you act like a child, I’ll treat you like one_ —though it only reduced her so far. Like a child student whom you still had a more professional relationship with, more than _her_ child. Regardless of the fact Ezri would never treat an actual child that way, no matter whose they were. It wasn’t a matter of strictly the age factor so much as that kind of pervasive ownership. The possessive. _Hers._

She wrote a few notes for her report.

In any case, Little Scouts. She was a drained introvert with no more energy to combat social anxiety or a tendency to be found abrasive by certain audiences.

Ezri had wanted to see her briefly after an early evening inspection shortly after dinner, and before she left with Fiona, as of the schedule review last night. So she found her in the bedroom, sitting on the bed.

Ezri gestured for her to kneel in front of her. “Well,” she said, “my plan as of last night was mostly a preventative session, but I think you’ve had plenty of discipline for today and tomorrow both.”

Lalia flushed a little, mind wandering back to her thoughts from earlier. “Yes, ma’am.”

“But I can still help you get ready for Little Scouts. Turn around.”

Lalia frowned in confusion, but did so.

Ezri undid the twist ponytail Lalia’s hair had been in, combed her fingers through it. Realization dawned. Something like indignation mixed with the soothing, looked after feeling of Ezri dividing and braiding her hair. The sound that escaped showed both, but Ezri only laughed fondly.

It was just—she hadn’t meant to go to Little Scouts under the guise of being a little, and she felt strange appearing a little more so that way. She’d been allowed to add leggings to her uniform per the cold, which disguised the knee socks; the button up and skirt were more up to interpretation depending on context, could’ve almost been business casual without the socks or leggings.

Ezri finished the two braids, each tied off with a gray ribbon tied around a normal hair elastic. “That should do.”

Lalia examined them as they slid in front of her shoulders. Fishtails—which Lalia was surprised Ezri knew how to do, since her own hair was too short to braid.

“And I have a present for you,” Ezri added, brushing past her and producing a fabric package from the nightstand drawer.

Lalia opened it, untying the fabric knot. A stuffed hippogriff fell into her lap. She laughed helplessly, said, “You do remember I’m not actually a little, right?”

“So you don’t like it?” Ezri asked with light sarcasm, watching her pet its wings happily.

“No. I love it.” She clutched it to her protectively.

Ezri laughed. “I thought so.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” She tapped her nose.

Lalia pouted.

“Don’t pout at me, young lady; I still have plenty of time to put you over my knee before you leave.” But the words were entirely playful.

“Mm.” The idea of preventative discipline minutes ago had been off putting, but a play hand spanking over Ezri’s knee sounded nice.

Ezri rolled her eyes at her, but sat on the bed again and maneuvered her over her lap. Pulled her panties down her thighs and flipped her skirt up, offered rapid, hard smacks that made Lalia melt against her for a few minutes. She wriggled contentedly even when it was over. Ezri tugged at her hair, the loose beginnings of the braids, and said, “ _Mine_. Now be a good girl at Little Scouts, and we can talk about more later.”

 _Mm._ “Thank you, ma’am.” Soft, content, floaty.

Ezri fixed her clothes and let her up.

Little Scouts, truth be told, was not so bad. As it happened, Riley and Tamora were both there, and at a table with Fiona, they colored and caught up. Being with people she knew took the edge off the required extroversion, as did the background distraction of coloring. Though she noticed a bristle of irritation and anxiety when someone else she didn't know, circulating the room with stickers, kept prodding her to put one somewhere on her, even though she had already explained the uniform policy.

But it was mostly fine. Tamora somehow made coloring with crayons seem like fine art, and assured Fiona she was in good hands.

At home, Fiona went to bed quickly, and Ezri teasingly approved of Lalia’s coloring page—which was neatly done, if she had not achieved Tamora’s elusive crayon shading technique.

Alone, still in the entry, Ezri asked, “Did you still want more time over my knee?”

Lalia shook her head. It still sounded nice, in theory, but she was so exhausted, she worried she would just fall asleep there no matter what Ezri did.

“Very well. I have other plans for you, then.”

Lalia frowned, fairly certain that those plans had little to do with her collapsing into her blanket and falling asleep. Indignation rose again, manifesting as pressure in her chest even as she took Ezri’s hand silently and let her lead the way up the stairs. Her _no_ to that idea had been a _no_ to any others, didn’t she see that?

She stumbled a little on the last few steps, but Ezri steadied her. She decided to give her the chance to prove her wrong, even upstairs in the bedroom, door closed behind them.

“Undress.”

Irritation settled in as a clenched jaw as she set her things on the bed and started fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. She did as told, but didn’t try to hide her exhausted clumsiness, or that she was freezing without her clothes, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.

“Good girl.” Ezri _noticed_ but offered only a warm touch stroking her sides, a kiss on the forehead. The touch strangely intensified the feeling. God, she just wanted to sleep. But she was determined to be good and keep her mouth shut about it. “On the bed, on your back.”

Lalia went. The bed felt achingly good under her. Warm. Her eyes fluttered open and shut, trying to find her usual enjoyment in Ezri undressing as she also fought sleep, and tried not to just stare at her, or indulge the slight urge to glare.

As it was, she undressed only halfway, a slight concession to the cold that made Lalia feel somewhat vindicated, as unhelpful to her as that was.

“I know you’re tired and cold,” she told her, “but after this, you can go to sleep. Nice warm slave furs.” Smirk. Nudged her legs open, stroked her a little. Frown.

She was decidedly not wet—not turned on, which she kind of liked there being evidence of—while Ezri seemed to have gotten some foreplay in while she was gone. The trainees had not started any sexual training yet, so it must have been sheerly for her, which was an interesting thought.

Adjusting, thrusting against her a little, didn’t cause any give. “Here.” Ezri dug lube out of the nightstand—one of the few most practical things kept there, applied it mostly to herself, but wiped the rest off on Lalia.

This, at least, let Ezri inside her, though Lalia hissed as her body adjusted, or didn’t, tensing, whimpering at the stretch of it as Ezri continued.

“Shh. That’s a good girl. The faster you relax, the easier it’ll be.”

Lalia tried to breathe, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted in the blanket. It _almost_ felt good, like rough, intense sex in the right frame of mind and body, but not quite.

“You’ll take it either way, angel, so the sooner you stop clenching, the better.”

A good point. She tried to untense muscles, stop clenching, and _breathe._

That was better. A shaky sigh of relief. It wasn’t particularly pleasurable, but it didn’t hurt anymore. She could do this for as long as Ezri wanted it.

Still, she squirmed when Ezri’s hand settled around her throat, not pressing, just there, but the possibility present. She was _trying_ to relax as suggested, and wanted to snap how that wasn’t making it any easier, even if in a better mood, it all but soothed her. She relaxed a little when Ezri’s fingers wrapped around her collar instead.

She did, at least, deeply enjoy knowing that Ezri would use her just the same even when her body didn’t like it, despite her own initial irritation. That her desired lack of right to say no meant something, would be tested. That she did truly exist for Ezri's pleasure, not her own. That it wasn’t just something they said during sex. That she _was_ owned. That Ezri would decide what she could and couldn’t take and what she was and wasn’t ready for. She felt… secure. Looked after. In that. That she could give her this even when she momentarily didn’t want to. That all that mattered was how badly, underneath every other human emotion, she wanted to always tell her yes.

Ezri came inside her, fucking her hard, hands pulling at her collar, her braids, tearing scratches down her chest, nails digging into her hips, trying to refrain from any way of taking out the orgasm that would wake the trainees, panting, overcome by it. Lalia writhed under her; by now, it all felt pleasant, at least, not too intensely, but enough to writhe and whimper.

They both took a moment to breathe.

“Good girl.” A kiss on the forehead.

Lalia thought she might have dozed off, because she tried to respond but nothing crossed her lips, and she had no memory of Ezri moving, but then Ezri had pajamas on and was nudging her to sit up, offering water and a capsule from the new prescription bottle, which Lalia took, one arm steadying herself on the bed, vision swimming.

“I plugged in your phone and set your alarm.”

A sleepy nod, falling forwards a little, turning into nuzzling against her.

Ezri laughed. “Come on, sleepyhead. Upsy daisy.” Scooped her up with some effort, and set her on her blanket a few feet away, which was now unfolded on the floor. Tucked the other half of the blanket over her, and the hippogriff under her arm.

Lalia mumbled something incoherent, nestling into the blanket and pulling Witherwings closer.

Ezri shook her head fondly. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

In the morning, Lalia woke somewhat confused by her lack of clothing, the ribbons now dangling loosely from her hair, and Witherwings, whose name she didn’t remember for a few minutes. She had stirred before her alarm, rolling over a few times before shutting it three minutes before it would’ve gone off. As she sat up, she felt quickly more alert than usual.

She stretched; she’d adjusted to her fluffy blanket on the bedroom carpet quickly, but she did sometimes wake a little stiff.

She dressed, brushed her hair out and put it up. Inspired, she tied the two ribbons from the night before around a small present she’d initially been saving for Christmas, and took it to Ezri’s office, set it on her desk when she was beckoned in.

Ezri laughed, untying them and examining the little Slytherin pin.

“It even matches,” said Lalia, looking at Ezri’s emerald flannel. “I was going to bring you the coloring page, too, but I don’t know where it went.”

Ezri made a gesture, and Lalia’s eyes followed it to where the page in question had already been pinned to the wall on the other side of her desk. She flushed, laughed.

“Thank you, sweetheart," said Ezri. "Help me put it on?” As if she needed the help.

But Lalia smiled, affixed the pin to her shirt.

The rest of the morning was busy enough Lalia barely got to think about her nerves beyond doing the actual tasks she was nervous about getting done. After breakfast, she and the trainees went straight to final prep for the summit that started at one.

There were thirteen official attendees, a few slave plus ones expected, and four of them. Plenty.

Final touch up cleaning, leaflets into the dining table and getting creative with chairs until it sat thirteen. Putting out name plates, making and setting out the first round of snacks. The required offer of preventative discipline to each of the trainees. Irene, while apparently quick to say yes to pain, to a form of discipline, said no. Privately, Lalia thought it might have helped her focus. Westley, squirming, also said no, even when Lalia emphasized how it could be used for anxiety relief. Fiona, though, said yes. She had expressed before that paddles were too loud for her sensory sensitivities, and had been offered the choice of either the paddle with earplugs or the cane instead as the preventative default; she had chosen the latter.

Lalia was nervous about delivering it, but at least she’d used the cane before, whereas the paddle was totally new, besides quick pillow practice with Ezri. Still, she hadn’t administered more than correction, and this required a lot more subtle nuance, what with the intuitive nature of the part without counting.

Fiona had self reported her pain tolerance as a six—here being, the number she would report in a scene around the time she began to cry—and her threshold as a four, the number she would report when she was really starting to feel it, and did not identify as a masochist.

Lalia tried to keep those numbers in mind, noting reactions—the slight squirming of _feeling it_ , and trying to not go too far over, aiming for about a five.

It seemed to go well enough.

Tasks done, she led the group stretch and breathe, went over one more time who would be doing what, where, when, gave a final pep talk, and was almost gaining confidence when—

_Fwooop._

“What… the fuck?” Irene voiced it for all of them.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Westley also voiced for all of them, though the abbreviated version was said anxiously under his breath.

“Um…” Fiona trailed off, looking around for answers, then finally at Lalia, as the other two did. In the early afternoon overcast, most blinds closed, many windows backing to foliage, it wasn’t pitch black, but definitely uncomfortable.

The power had gone out.

Five minutes before the summit.


	9. The Summit

“Estimated time of restoration, 3 PM,” Lalia read bleakly from the electric company’s website on her phone.

“We could move outside?” Irene suggested, as Ezri walked in but didn’t say anything, observed.

Lalia bit her lip. She wasn’t sure that thirteen assertive types debating sex trafficking consent violations on the back patio was what the HOA, the neighbors, Ezri, or anyone else wanted. “We’ll get more lighting in here. Get some candles. We’ll call it melodramatic. And don’t open the fridge for too long when you’re getting drinks. Irene, candles?”

Ezri offered a quirk of a smile of approval.

“Where are they?” asked Irene.

“There should be some in the kitchen. In the cabinet with the table linens.”

Irene went.

Lighting a little dramatic but handled, Lalia and Irene waited in position in the entry; Fiona and Westley awaited orders in the kitchen. Ezri hovered.

People started to arrive shortly. They just had to collect drink orders, explain the power outage, and direct people to the dining room, Irene leading the way and dropping orders with Fiona and Westley on the way back, for them to place in the dining room.

Lalia stayed in the entry. She knew many of the attendees. Ezri, Jen, Dennis, Charlie, Branwen, and Travis were amply familiar. Natasha and Zack were the young couple she’d met at MAsT. Keith, Shawn, Ian, and Veronica she’d all seen at a party or two, but hadn’t really spoken to, perhaps a, “ _Yes, sir_ ,” or, “ _Yes, ma’am_ ,” here and there.

The only person she had never met at all was an older woman, with a slightly graying brown bob on the long side of the _I’d like to speak to the manager_ haircut. “I heard Ezri finally found herself a slave,” she smiled at Lalia, catching the tail end of her explanation to Keith, who was already off with Irene. “You must be Lalia.” Held out her hand.

Lalia shook it. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ezri, who Lalia had last thought was off in the living room talking to Asher, who had come with Dennis, about some newsletter business, materialized at her side, an arm around her waist.

“Ezri,” the other woman greeted with another smile, “it’s been a while.”

“It has. A lot’s happened.” She gave Lalia a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “Lalia, sweetheart, this is Cynthia.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Likewise.” Cynthia brushed invisible lint off her pink cardigan.

To Lalia, Ezri said, “Now be a good girl and go get some coffee for me before we get started. And make sure you put my notebook and pen out for me.” A kiss on the lips this time, fingers wrapped around her collar. Something told her that the touchiness was for Cynthia’s benefit more than hers, possessive, and that the reason she hadn’t met Cynthia before was that Ezri didn’t like her very much. “And some green tea for Cynthia as always, I assume?”

“Please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Curtsy, wary of the audience, and left, beckoned Irene, returned, to follow her to the kitchen. Handed off Cynthia’s drink order to Westley but got Ezri’s coffee herself, along with a double check on the notebook. Told Irene to bring each of the slave plus ones, seated on the floor, waters. Clara with Jen, Asher with Dennis, Andre with Branwen, plus Veronica’s slave whose name Lalia was unsure of, and Keith’s slave whose name she was also unsure of. Like the trainees, they’d be silent unless addressed. The trainees could whisper in the kitchen, and Lalia had a notepad, but that was it.

With that all settled, Lalia and Fiona settled on either side of the doorway in the dining room, waiting position. Westley and Irene were in the kitchen.

The summit got going. Though it had started with what to do about TrainingMax, there were several bigger questions on the table, which included: what did it mean to be in the network? What were the requirements? What did it mean to be banned from it? What warranted it? What was that whole process like?

It was interesting to listen to.

“Well, you figure there’s basically the business and the social,” said Ian. “As far as what the network does. And you get in when someone who’s already in determines you’re all right enough to risk their reputation on. Who was that one guy who moved last year who just kept fucking inviting people who turned out to be losers? Or worse? And he eventually got kicked out of most people’s stuff because they knew he had no taste.”

“There’s never been a formal procedure,” said Cynthia, “and I think it would be a whole other task to enforce one. But reputation risk seems to work quickly. Not to mention legal risk, if you disclose your part in the business side. Have to probe the waters.”

Lalia remembered the “hypothetical” article Ezri had shown her early on, that described almost exactly the network as it was. Asking her about it.

“Who let TrainingMax in, then?” Keith asked.

Cynthia shook her head uncertainly.

Ian said, “Isn’t one of them not even from around here?”

“I think Amoret got in through someone more local to her. Less so here. I don’t know who,” said Ezri. “I think Garrett was in network out of state and when he moved here, just kind of… showed up.”

“Some people do get more robust. Do background checks and all, especially if it’s a partner. Public scene reference checking,” said Keith.

“It’s hard to prove if someone’s done their research,” said Cynthia. “What are they to do, give everyone a report? And you can do your own research before you let them into your events or business life. I think that staking their reputation on it is enough.”

“I’d agree,” said Ezri. “Plenty of people don’t mix their vanilla lives with the scene. Don’t even use their real names. Just because they don’t want a full background check doesn’t mean they’re hiding anything we care about. More likely to mean they’re hiding _this_.”

“Network leans towards some level of being out,” said Keith. “But I agree, we take out plenty of nice enough people by demanding too much. And if they’re new, they might not have a bunch of references.”

“Not that we want too many newbies,” said Cynthia.

“Oh, speak for yourself, Cyn,” said Zack, who had to be something like thirty to forty years her junior. “Just because someone’s new doesn’t mean they can’t learn quick. And how experienced can someone be and still have training programs be worthwhile?”

Lalia got the impression that Cynthia may have irritated more than just Ezri at some point. And as someone relatively new, she couldn’t help but feel better knowing that some others agreed that sheer time wasn’t everything. She’d certainly packed a lot in to even the last few months.

“Membership is pretty much all word of mouth,” said Natasha, agreeing with her husband. “And that gives you some opinions along with the name. And, what, poking through FetLife profiles for the symbol somewhere to confirm? _Condemnant quod non intellegunt_ somewhere?” The network motto. 

“Is that one profile still active?” asked Ian. “The one that was supposed to friend everyone network around here and no one else?”

“Little slow, but it’s going,” said Dennis. “I have the boy check it at least once a month.” Nodded at Asher.

Lalia pulled the notepad and pen from her pocket, wrote a few refill notes, handed the page to Fiona, along with a final note to trade places with Westley—have him handle the refills, then take his place by the door. Replaced the notepad and pen and returned to position. She was to try to stay in the dining room, send the trainees for refills and such. But Fiona hadn’t moved even as glasses started to empty, not noticing herself.

“So if it’s business and social,” said Keith, “the law already bans at least half of that, so who are we to tell people no? I’m not saying we shouldn’t, but how?”

“Be the ones who _get_ the law involved?” asked Natasha.

“And then whoever you’re accusing turns right back around and accuses you of human trafficking. Ran into that with TrainingMax. You need some kind of edge,” said Jen.

“And it’s all but impossible to settle if you don’t have a victim testifying,” said Branwen. “Which they might not. No one wants to take that case. And I don’t like cops.”

“No one _likes_ cops,” said Dennis.

Cynthia opened her mouth to speak.

“Like, as a black woman, I think cops are unethical, and as an attorney, I think cops are incompetent,” said Branwen. She had mentioned coming to the summit straight from work, taking the afternoon off—an attorney by day, still dressed for it, rather than the sportier wear she had donned for leash training. What a job combo, thought Lalia.

“And why wouldn’t a victim testify?” Cynthia asked.

“Well, just because _we_ don’t like something, doesn’t mean the person we’re worried about doesn’t. In some cases,” said Branwen. "And, the usual. Threats. Payoffs." 

“So what makes something a _network_ sale, rather than any other human trafficking deal?” asked Ezri.

Quiet, thinking. Lalia sent Westley to the kitchen via note to trade out the snack tray, emptying, for a fresh one.

“Well,” said Ian, “not much more than just if they say it is.”

“So what gives someone the right to call something a network sale?”

“Well, it’s not really _right_ —as it stands now—just knowledge, really, which takes us back to what gets you in to start with,” said Keith.

“But we want to make there be a way people get _out_ of the network,” said Natasha. “And we can’t take back their knowledge of it.”

“If we want to ban people, we’d need criteria that gets you banned,” said Cynthia. “And then what it means to _be_ banned. Obviously we can’t stop human sale any more than the law can, but we can ban people from events and refuse the notion that they’re network.”

“It'd need to be universal,” said Travis. “Otherwise it’s just whoever happens to think they should be banned. And we already do that. TrainingMax isn’t welcome at most kink events in this city, couldn’t even get into enough to qualify for this, but they still have just enough friends to make it sound like they’re legit.” After some time with Tamora, he seemed especially eager to make sure TrainingMax was handled for good. “Say, if you do business with or invite someone blacklisted, you’re out, too.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” said Shawn.

“Well,” said Cynthia, “it would certainly work, if information was distributed right. I don’t think we should ban anyone for an accident. Obviously we’d distribute information to public scene leaders as well, where we can. And then anyone blacklisted will have a harder time getting into events to find victims, and customers. One thing knowing a customer is network gets you is a bit of security—if you’re scouting only outside the network, you have to be the one to take the risk every time on if someone’s a dangerous criminal or an undercover agent or just likely to try to turn you in.”

Lalia gave Westley a note to trade places with Irene, and have her refresh the hot drink accoutrements.

“Well, what _gets_ someone blacklisted?” asked Veronica. “That might determine how harsh we’re willing to be.”

“Majority vote of summit members?” said Cynthia.

“No,” said Ezri. “There’s way too much room for social politics there.”

“How so?”

“Who’s _met_ Garrett or Amoret? Show of hands?” asked Ezri.

Her, Jen, Branwen, Keith.

“That’s less than a third. That we’re relying on for information. We need to all actually know what we’re voting on.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“A standard investigation procedure. Interviews, references, testimonies, evidence. Informed of charges, given a chance to defend themselves, due process.”

“I second,” said Branwen. “Otherwise we’ll start blindly voting people off the island we just don’t like. And not being likable isn’t a crime.”

“I’m _not_ defending the case that raised the question, but before we agree to make all future decisions this way…” Ezri added.

“Thirded,” said Jen. “Everyone gets all the information from the source before they vote.”

“Did we decide on what it means to be blacklisted?” Veronica asked. “Banned? Whatever word we’re using?”

“Banned from network events. Public scene leaders informed. If you knowingly invite them or sell to or buy from them, you’re blacklisted without vote,” said Travis.

“I still think we could calm down a little,” said Shawn. “Blacklisted _with_ vote, maybe? Or with the same investigation procedure?”

“If they’re endorsing the activities of someone we’ve already investigated, I think we’re just stalling by going through it again—” Ezri started.

“—Shall we vote?” asked Cynthia. “Blacklisted _without_ investigation or vote, show of hands?”

Ezri, Jen, Dennis, Branwen, Travis, Cynthia, and Keith.

“Blacklisted _with_ another investigation?”

Natasha, Zack, Shawn, Ian, and Veronica.

“I abstain,” said Charlie, which got a few curious looks, and Lalia had to wonder, but no one argued.

“And for investigation procedure, then majority vote, to blacklist?” Cynthia asked. “All for?”

Twelve.

“I abstain,” said Charlie.

Then, debate of the procedure. Eventually it came down to a few things. Informing the accused. A period of at least two months to gather information, allow a change in the behavior, present references and evidence and testimonies, conduct at least one interview of the accused and any victims—subject to their consent—by a summit member, questions taken from the members and answers relayed back to everyone, and a chance for the accused to present a case in front of the summit, with a voted on summit member presenting all counter evidence, trial style, before the final vote.

Among it, Lalia had Irene trade places with Fiona, more refills.

Then back to, “What begins an investigation?” asked Veronica. “Some other procedure?”

“Some kind of preliminary evidence should be required,” said Ezri. “Otherwise we start harassing people because of baseless claims.”

“Evidence of… what?” Branwen asked. “I agree, but it’s vague.”

“Violation of safeword or limit?” said Natasha. Zack nodded along in agreement.

But Ezri shook her head. “Some things should get you investigated even in CNC. I don’t think we could technically investigate TrainingMax on that.”

“‘Consent concern’ that comes to the summit’s attention?” Natasha asked.

“Just because it comes to the summit’s attention doesn’t mean it’s a contract violation,” said Jen.

“Well, if the slave is purposefully bringing it to us…”

“Then their Owner should handle them,” Jen said, a little darkly, but she smiled at Natasha. “We need more than a complaint. Just because they don’t like something and go around whining about it doesn’t mean they didn’t agree.”

“I agree we need to define what we need evidence of,” said Ezri, “but yes, I think violation of personal agreements is a messy place to start. I’d say more like purposeful or negligent endangerment when they know they’re not risk aware. Say, cutting off the communication of someone who’s clearly trying to warn you of something before you drown them in a bathtub, when you know breath play was a soft limit. Or selling someone to a person you know to be abusive, and deeming it no longer your problem.”

Lalia cringed to remember it all. Tamora had seemed so cheerful at Little Scouts the night before; it was hard, sometimes, to remember where they began, even though she’d said she looked forward to hearing about the summit from Travis. Riley, though a bit sullen as usual, still seemed to feel the weight off of having largely exited the network. Though they had said that if they could offer any damning testimony against TrainingMax, give them a call.

“We definitely need a more RACK or PRICK approach than SSC,” said Branwen. “Risk aware, personal responsibility, I think is a lot easier to define consent by than safe or sane. People tell me I’m an insane cunt to this one all the time.” She gave Andre an affectionate smack upside the head, which made him laugh.

“Shall we vote? Negligent or purposefully non risk aware activity, or lack of responsibility taken?” asked Cynthia.

“Well, hold on,” said Travis, “shouldn’t there be more to it than that? I mean, say you _are_ risk aware and do something deadly anyway?”

“Then you’re getting back towards SSC instead of RACK,” said Jen. “If they genuinely don’t know what they’re doing, tell 'em, and if they _purposefully_ don’t know what they’re doing, fucking look into that. But if they know what they’re doing? Their choice. Leave ‘em the fuck alone.”

“But if they choose to do something dangerous—”

“Like what? Define dangerous. What’s dangerous? Whips? Well, you could get them around someone’s neck and they’re dead now, so those are out. Paddle to the head could definitely take someone out, so none of those. Rope? Oh, well, people use that to hang themselves, so can’t use that. And sharps, well, God knows those are out. Fire kills people; fire’s dangerous; so, no more fire, surely.” She blew out the candles. “Electricity? Well—”

“We get it,” Ezri cut her off as it only got more uncomfortable. (Lalia, a little uncertain, slipped Fiona a note to have Westley get the lighter and relight the candles, and trade places with her.) “I agree that we shouldn’t go back that direction. Thank you for the… demonstration.”

Clara looked like she was trying not to laugh.

“Well, there’s stupid versus malicious,” said Natasha. “Just because someone _understands_ that something’s dangerous doesn’t mean they should do it.”

“True,” said Zack, as Westley fixed the candles.

“Well, no one’s saying they _should_ , just that it’s not our right to get in the middle of it,” said Jen. “If they want to shoot their slave, and understand that they will die, and that they have to deal with the authorities, that’s still technically RACK and PRICK both. Sure, killing people is bad. Beating people is bad. Tying people up and forcing sex on them is bad. Right?”

“Well—”

“Unless, of course, they agreed.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So what makes the deep end any different? Not endorsing slave murder. Just food for thought.” There was the dark smile again.

“Well… but a lot more people agree to get beaten or tied up for sex than murdered,” Natasha tried.

“Oh, if you’re negotiating one scene, sure, but when you’re doing total irrevocable consent?”

“Why don’t we vote? Evidence of negligent or purposeful non risk aware activity, or lack of responsibility taken? To begin investigation?” Cynthia asked. “All in favor?”

Jen, Branwen, Ezri, Dennis, Cynthia.

“Opposed?”

All else, save Charlie.

“I abstain.”

“You _are_ allowed to vote, you know,” Jen told him in frustration. “I don’t know if Paige ever told you that while she was so helpfully running your life, but Mommy’s not here to tell Master how to vote anymore.”

“ _Jen_.” Ezri spoke her name through gritted teeth.

“Strong preliminary evidence that an investigation might be worthwhile, convincing majority vote to pursue it?” Cynthia modified.

“I’m in favor,” Ezri sighed, giving in.

“All in favor?”

All except Jen and Branwen, with Charlie abstaining.

“I believe we’ve seen the preliminary evidence, so would we like to vote on investigation of TrainingMax? All for?”

Twelve for it.

“I abstain,” said Charlie.

“Would we like to vote on that other fellow? What was it? Eric?” Cynthia added. “I believe we’ve also all seen the evidence before the meeting?”

Ezri shook her head. “I’m against. He seems to have basically accepted being kicked out; I don’t want to give him any hopeful ideas or get him involved again.”

“He hasn’t bothered anyone. Not worth it to bring him in for investigation. Just give everyone a headache and flashbacks,” said Travis. “If he shows up again, sure.”

“All against, then?”

Twelve.

“I abstain,” said Charlie.

Lalia slipped a note to Westley to trade with Irene, have her fetch refills.

“Cynthia, since you’ve decided you’re running this now, are you allowed to abstain in important votes? I just worry we could end up with a tie~” said Jen sweetly.

“— _Jen_ —” Ezri admonished again.

“—I…” Cynthia looked a little taken back; Charlie, silent, visibly stewed. “Well, don’t think it would be right to force someone to vote. We’d just have to debate until we reached some kind of consensus.”

“Now, I know there’s a lotta things to look at here,” said Charlie, “but, look, I didn’t know where Paige was goin’, and I had to look at what was in front of me. She’d been perfectly good for me for a lotta years; I didn’t wanna fuck things up for ‘er. S’long as she went somewhere she felt happy and safe, I didn’t mind.”

“Ah, yes, she’s very safe with TrainingMax,” said Jen sarcastically.

“Well hold on a minute, I know they’ve done some questionable things, but to her, it don’t look like—”

Jen wasn’t listening. She was already dumping the contents of a large envelope onto the table. “Keys to her house. Car. Workplace. Collar.” A flashdrive. “Every move she’s made at work since she started.” Some papers. “The passwords to the bank account she gets paid out of, her workplace’s social media, insurance… yes, they clearly care so very much about her security, don’t they~?”

Silence.

Charlie hadn’t heard about the keys, as far as Lalia knew, and—

“I thought those were Amoret’s keys.” Ezri voiced her other question in the silence.

Jen grinned at her. “Take a wild fucking guess.”

Well, that was news. 

Cynthia said, “You know, I think we’ve about covered what we set out to today; we’ll have to get in contact with TrainingMax and iron out some details, but—”

“Speaking of safety,” said Charlie to Jen, “didn’t you take that one—” he gestured at Clara “—along to the ER fiasco? And the negotiations? And Eric’s?”

“Yes.”

Quiet.

“And, what? Nowhere I didn’t go. Nowhere Ezri didn’t go. And she didn’t get hurt.”

“Didn’t you get cut in that fight with Eric?”

“Yes. _I_ did.”

“And how close was she when that happened?”

“I’d told her to run a bit down the street.”

“And had she?” Charlie caught the phrasing.

Lalia sucked in a breath. Clara still stared at the floor, head a little lower than before.

“Yes.” Confidently spoken, not technically untrue.

“Well,” said Travis, who would’ve heard Tamora’s recollection of this event, “she’d come back, hadn’t she?”

“After that. When it was over. And still not into the house,” Jen acquiesced, though her tone wasn’t reconciliatory. “But against orders.”

“So ya took a brat with no real rules into a place where the only thing protecting her was orders?” Charlie asked.

“Fuck you,” Jen snapped at him. “She gave me _no_ reason to think she would do that. I don’t have a million rules to prove it, but when I tell her to do something, she does.”

Lalia had to mentally agree. While she still debated with herself if she thought of Clara as a brat—a word Lalia normally had very negative connotations with—given how quickly and willingly Clara could turn the playfulness off when requested—and had initially judged Jen and Clara’s low protocol to mean a low level of power exchange, which she now realized was simply not how they expressed their still very deep power exchange—she had never seen or heard of Clara _disobeying_ Jen except the twice.

She slipped a note to Irene to trade with Fiona.

“I heard ya got banned from Temptation. Safeword violation. Blood play. What, few weeks before? And she doesn’t have a safeword, right? So what was she doin’ yellin’ one in public?”

“She was in drop. She was panicking. She didn’t know anyone could hear her—”

“If she was so out of sorts, what were ya doin’ still cuttin’ ‘er up?”

“And who did you get this story from? Staff that doesn’t even trust how long a whip is?”

“Why didn’t ya stop?”

“Because she doesn’t _have_ a safeword. Like you just said. I was trying to calm her down enough to talk plainly about the problem in case I could fix it.”

“So ya just wanted to continue.”

“Yes, I—”

“And what made ya think she’d go with it? That ya could gag her and tie her down?”

“I don’t know where you got this idea that I can’t control her—and yes, if need be—but that wasn’t my plan—”

“Then what _was_ your plan?”

“I could’ve fixed that headspace—”

“Mid scene?”

“Yes.”

“Bit of a bold claim. How were ya goin’ to do that?”

Silence.

“I think this has gotten out of hand—” Ezri started.

“I’d also like to know,” Cynthia interrupted, earning a few nods of agreement.

“Clara, leave,” Jen ordered, without particularly looking at her.

“Yes, Mistress.” Clara stood smoothly, offered a quick, delicate curtsy, and left, brushing past Lalia at the door without either looking up, though Lalia offered a sympathetic grimace.

“Well?” asked Charlie.

“I… well, I’d—she’d been conditioned before, to respond to certain cues. I’d planted some hypnotic trigger words while she was in heavy subspace, the almost dissociative kind, nearly any time she was there—a return to trance cue word. It was close enough. And I’d used it before, even out of scene, enough to know it would put her there. I was going to use that. Happy?”

Uneasy silence. Lalia slipped a note to Fiona to trade with Westley.

Jen did something on her phone. Clara reappeared, kneeling at her side.

Charlie just said, “Fuck,” and ran his hands over his face.

“I think we’ve gotten off topic—” Ezri began.

“That sounds a little like psychological force into consent,” said Cynthia. “Perhaps you could elaborate on your viewpoint?”

“What is this, a Make Safewords Great Again meeting? She agreed up front. Save the questions for the TrainingMax investigation.”

“But this isn’t about TrainingMax.”

“Either way. I thought we needed preliminary evidence and a vote before we started asking people nosy questions?”

“Would anyone like to vote?” Cynthia asked.

“On _what_ evidence?” Jen demanded.

_Oh, fuck._

“Admission to psychological coercion. Previous kink venue ban. Possible endangerment. Expression that slaves should be punished for raising concerns to others—”

“—I never said that—”

“—Then what was your word? ‘Handled?’ And expressing that any form of violence can be consented to under RACK. And generally being a nuisance. All for investigation?”

“Hold on—”

Six for. Cynthia, Ian, Zack, Natasha, Veronica, Keith.

“All against?”

Dennis, Branwen, Ezri, Jen, Travis, and Shawn.

Eyes turned to Charlie.

“Well,” he said, “it _would_ be unfair to abstain in a tie. So I’m all for it.”

 _Oh, fuck,_ Lalia thought again. This had all backfired impossibly fast.

“ _Condemnant quod non intellegunt,”_ Jen spat at Charlie, and left, standing and slamming her chair into the table before storming out, dragging Clara by the collar behind her, somewhat unnecessarily, as Clara seemed to be trying to keep up with her. Somewhere else, a door slammed.

“I agree we’ve accomplished plenty today, Cynthia,” said Ezri flatly, snapping her notebook shut. “Unless anyone else would like to start throwing out needless accusations?”

“Fuck, let’s just go home,” said Branwen. “And y’all can stop acting like toddlers before next time.”

“We’ll plan via email,” said Cynthia, smiling. The group rapidly dispersed. Even Ezri seemed eager to simply get out of the room.

The power came back on with another _fwoop_.

 _You’ve gotta be kidding me,_ Lalia thought, and had no productive thoughts on what to say to the trainees, how to weave their witnessed parts of the story together, so she only said, “Let’s just get the kitchen and dining room in order. You can get started. I’ll be right back.”

She went looking for Ezri, even poking her head outside where everyone was leaving, but she wasn’t there, apparently not interested in any mingling. She noticed that Jen and Clara’s car was still in the driveway and didn’t see them outside, so they had to be somewhere in the house, too.

She reached the top of the stairs, and found Ezri pacing about the hall, looking quizzical, shutting the door to the trainees’ room. “Are Jen and Clara downstairs?” she asked.

Lalia shook her head. “I thought they might be up here with you.”

“No sign of them. Unless…” She looked at the play room door skeptically, but opened it.

Well, they’d found Jen and Clara all right, in the one soundproofed room in the house.

Clara, curled up in a ball on the floor, writhing in pain, arms over her head, sobbing, whimpering apologies, clothes disheveled. Jen, standing over her, the belt she’d probably been wearing lashing at Clara wherever it could reach, hard, fast, and clearly unrestrained—at a closer glance, the metal end of it—shouting at her, not even noticing the door opening.

This wasn’t a scene. Whatever it was, it was out of control now. Too much. That was clear in a heartbeat.

Without further thought, Lalia threw herself on top of Clara.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).


End file.
